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«M^fW^ifl| 


THE    TRUST 


AND 


THE    REMITTANCE 

2K0o  2L0fce  Stories  in  jHetreli  p 


BY 

MARY   COWDEN   CLARKE. 
t\ 


"  It  is  silly  sooth  ; 
And  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  Love  ; 

Like  'the, o'A  ?ge\J'«      .'        ,'"',' 

'  SHAKESPEARE. 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS. 
lS74. 


Cambridge : 


TO 
THE    LOVER-HUSBAND    OF    EIGHTY-FIVE, 

Zfytt-t  ILofae  £torits  arc  QetitcatctJ 

BY 
THE    LOVER-WIFE    OF    SIXTY-THREE. 


M93763 


PREFACE. 


THE  versified  form  in  which  these  two  love  sto- 
ries are  written  was  purposely  chosen,  in  order  to 
give  effect  that  should  harmonize  with  the  old-world 
romance  in  situation  and  sentiment,  blended  with 
more  familiar  every-day  details  —  the  poetic  feeling 
mingled  with  more  prosaic  circumstances  —  which 
the  stories  themselves  comprise. 

MARY   COWDEN   CLARKE. 


THE       TRUST. 


THE     TRUST. 


"  Wilt  thou  make  a  trust  a  transgression  ? "  —  SHAKESPEARE. 

AY,  from  my  very  boyhood  I  had  seen 
And  known  her :  Clarice  Merton  of  the  Hall ; 
A  fine  old  stately  mansion  that  had  been 
The  seat  of  all  the  Mertons  since  the  time 
When  Tudors  reigned.     As  niece  and  heiress  to 
Sir  Horace  Merton,  she  was  mistress  there 
Already  :  for  the  portly  gentleman, 
Her  uncle,  loved  the  tall  fair  slender  girl 
With  all  a  father's  fondness ;  and  she  queened 
It  with  right  royal  dignity  and  grace. 
She  looked  the  well-born  lady  that  she  was,  — • 
The  representative  of  ancient  blood 
And  birth  :  her  every  movement  was  instinct 
With  native  self-possession,  high-bred  ease. 
Her  beauty  was  imperial,  and  made 
For  sway.     I  well  remember,  when  a  lad, 
i* 


10  -   *<Ttf&   TRUST. 

How  it  subdued  myself  :< ,!'  used  to  see 

Her  pass  on  horseback,  with  her  uncle,  through 

The  lane  that  led  from  Merton  Hall,  and  oft 

J  lingered  by  the  way  to  watch  for  her. 

There  was  a  roadside  stile,  half  hidden  by 

The  thickly  clustered  hedge  that  shaded  it; 

And  this  was  frequently  my  resting-place. 

Time  after  time  I  saw  her  passing  by, 

Until  her  face  and  form  were  graven  on 

My  mind,  and  they  became  thenceforth  to  me 

The  sole  embodiment  of  womanhood's 

Perfection  :  by  the  roadside  stile  again 

And  yet  again  I  stood,  and  gazed  my  fill. 

She  ne'er  saw  me :  or  saw  me  as  one  sees 

A  pebble,  twig,  or  blade  of  grass,  that  lies 

Upon  the  path  one  treads  ;  a  thing  of  naught ; 

A  thing  unheeded,  unremarked  ;  a  thing 

That  merely  makes  a  part  of  all  around. 

I  knew  full  well  both  who  and  what  she  was : 

But  who  and  what  was  I  ?  Poor  Edward  Helme : 

Of  humble  origin  :  an  orphan  left 

In  earliest  years,  and  bound  apprentice  to 

The  village  stonemason,  who  thought  the  lad 

Gave  token  of  intelligence  and  power 


THE     TRUST.  I 

To  learn,  so  took  to  him,  and  taught  him  skill 
In  carving,  modelling,  —  the  more  refined, 
Artistic  portions  of  his  trade,  for  which 
The  boy  showed  aptitude  and  special  taste. 

I  reached  to  early  manhood  thus,  absorbed 
In  two  main  sources  of  pursuit  and  thought : 
One,  —  quiet,  steady  labor  at  my  work, 
Whereat  I  earned  an  honest  livelihood 
And  gained  my  master's  still-increased  good-will ; 
The  other,  —  evening  rambles  through  the  fields 
And  lanes,  where  I  might  chance  to  see  at  times 
The  object  of  my  worshipping  regard. 
If  blessed  with  sight  of  her,  my  heart  was  filled 
For  days  with  secret  sense  of  deep  content. 
I  question  whether  Clarice  Merton  knew 
Of  even  my  existence  :  but  I  knew 
Of  hers  ;  and  that  made  mine  a  gladdened  one. 

It  happened  that  Sir  Horace  Merton  wished 
To  have  some  vases  for  the  terrace  steps 
And  balustrade,  above  the  grassy  slope 
On  which  the  mansion  stood :  he  sent  to  my 
Employer,  who  despatched  me  to  the  Hall 
To  take  instructions.     In  a  tremor  of 
Excitement  I  set  forth :  but  none  of  it 


12  THE     TRUST. 

Appeared  beneath  my  usual  quiet  mien 

And  sober  aspect :  I  was  always  known 

Among  our  village  folk  for  gravity 

And  thoughtful  look  beyond  my  years  :  and  they 

Would  sometimes  nickname  me  "  Young  Serious." 

That  day  my  outward  grave  composure  served 

Me  well  to  hide  the  inward  hurry  of 

My  spirits,  as  I  found  myself  within 

Her  very  presence.     She  was  standing  with 

Her  uncle  on  the  terrace,  where  they  both 

Received  me  :  tall  and  stately  even  in 

Her  girlish  slenderness  and  grace,  she  leaned 

Against  the  marble  balustrade  and  smoothed 

Caressingly  the  gorgeous  throat  of  a 

Tame  peacock,  that  with  coy  reluctance  stooped 

Its  neck  to  her  familiar  hand  alone. 

The  while,  Sir  Horace  spoke  to  me  about 

The  vases ;  and  I  listened  to  his  words 

Through  all  the  mist  of  wilderment  in  which 

My  thoughts  were  wrapped  by  consciousness  of  her 

And  her  proximity.     Sir  Horace  talked 

With  fluent  dictate,  affable  command, 

The  sort  of  kindly  condescension  used 

By  one  who  gives  his  orders  to  a  man 


THE     TRUST.  13 

He  finds  to  be  proficient  in  his  trade, 
A  clever  artisan  and  competent. 

"  A  well-informed,  intelligent  young  man," 
I  heard  Sir  Horace  say,  as  he  dismissed 
Me  and  rejoined  his  niece  :  "  Indeed  ?  I  did 
Not  mark  him,"  she  replied  with  negligence. 

They  spoke  in  but  a  half-low  tone,  with  just 
That  carelessness  of  being  overheard 
Which  people  sometimes  use  when  only  their 
Inferiors  are  by.     I  felt  it  to 
The  core  :  I  was  to  her  no  more  but  simply 
The  stone-cutter,  the  mason's  man,  the  clerk 
Sent  by  his  master  to  receive  and  note 
The  orders  of  Sir  Horace  Merton  for 
The  vases  on  the  terrace  balustrade ; 
And  of  no  more  account  than  was  the  stone, 
The  marble,  or  the  granite  that  he  wrought. 
Yet,  after  all,  what  more  could  I  expect? 
What  more  was  natural  ?     She  knew  no  jot 
Of  me  but  what  she  saw  ;  and  that  was  naught,  — 
Naught  of  the  inner  self,  which  p'rhaps  contained 
A  something  worthy  in  its  quality ; 
A  certain  sturdy  manfulness  and  strong 
Reliability :  at  least,  my  good 


THE     TRUST. 

And  constant  friend,  my  master,  used  to  give 
Me  credit  for  possessing  these,  and  I 
Believe  I  had  them. 

Time  went  on  ;  and  there 

Was  coming  blankness  at  the  Hall.     'Twas  said 
Sir  Horace  Merton's  health  was  far  from  good, 
And  that  a  long  sea-voyage  was  prescribed ; 
'Twas  added  that  his  niece  was  going  with 
Him  ;  that  she  would  not  let  him  go  alone, 
Although  she  dreaded  leaving  her  old  home ; 
Disliked  the  sea,  and  cared  not  for  new  scenes ; 
Was  sure  there  was  no  place  like  Merton  Hall, 
But  told  her  uncle  playfully,  'twas  true 
She  loved  it  more  than  any  house  or  lands, 
Yet  loved  him  more  than  house  or  lands  or  aught. 

All  this  reached  village  ears,  as  doings  of 
The  great  are  sure  to  reach  their  neighbors'  ears, 
And  form  the  theme  of  gossip  comment :  thus 
I  learned  the  day  was  fixed  for  their  departure, 
And  pictured  to  myself  the  void  that  then 
Would  yawn  around  my  daily  life. 

Meantime, 

It  chanced  that  my  employer  had  to  send 
Abroad  on  confidential  business  ; 


THE     TRUST.  It 

And  he  chose  me  to  execute  the  charge. 

I  willingly  obeyed  ;  for  change  of  scene 

And  action  were  the  things  I  could  have  wished, 

To  take  me  from  the  dull,  dead,  dreary  round 

Of  days  and  nights  beset  with  aching  sense 

Of  loss,  and  absence,  and  soul's  want,  that  would 

Be  mine,  when  Clarice  Merton  once  was  gone. 

A  distant  colony  my  mission  had 
For  goal ;  I  took  my  passage  in  a  ship 
Was  thither  bound  ;  when  who  should  prove  to  be 
My  fellow  passengers  but  Clarice  and 
Her  uncle  !     My  intense  surprise  to  learn 
They  were  on  board  leaped  up  like  sudden  fire 
Within  my  heart,  and  kindled  into  blaze 
A  thousand  embers  of  deep-smouldering  joy 
That  I  had  thought  had  been  well-nigh  extinct. 
To  find  myself  thus  near  her,  thus  in  reach 
Of  seeing  her  and  hearing  her,  while  I 
Remained  unnoted,  seemed  renewal,  ay, 
And  more  than  a  renewal  of  the  old 
Enchanted  times,  when  I  beheld  her  pass 
Through  Merton  lanes,  a  vision  pure  and  fair. 
My  passage  had  been  taken  in  the  fore 
Part  of  the  ship  j  while  they,  of  course,  were  aft, 


1 6  THE     TRUST. 

And  had  commodious  cabins  to  themselves. 
So  that  I  saw  them  as  they  walked  the  deck, 
Engaged  in  chat,  and  pacing  to  and  fro. 
Sometimes  she  leaned  upon  his  arm  ;  sometimes 
She  gave  him  hers,  when  he  seemed  feeble,  or 
Less  well  than  usual ;  always  she  appeared 
The  gentle,  graceful,  and  devoted  child 
Attending  on  a  parent's  steps,  alive 
To  all  that  could  alleviate  and  cheer. 
No  wonder  that  he  loved  her  as  he  did, 
Indulging  her  and  making  her  his  all. 

One  day  I  heard  Sir  Horace  say  to  her,  — 
"  Who  do  you  think  I  fancy  that  I  saw 
On  board  this  ship  an  hour  ago  ? "     "I  can't 
Imagine,"  answered  she ;  "  how  should  I  guess  ? 
Some  one  we  know  ? "     "  Well,  not  exactly  know  ; 
Some  one  that  we  have  seen,  —  a  Merton  man ; 
No  other  than  that  well-informed  young  man 
Sent  up  by  White,  the  mason,  to  the  Hall 
To  take  my  orders  for  the  vases.     You 
Remember  him  ? "     "  Why  —  scarcely,"  she  replied : 
"  Oh,  yes  —  I  think  I  do ;  a  quiet,  grave 
Young  man,  that  you  thought  well  of,  did  you  not  ? " 
"  He  seemed  to  me  intelligent  and  skilled," 


THE     TRUST.  ij 

Sir  Horace  said ;  "  moreover,  struck  me  as 

Remarkably  trustworthy,  and  to  be 

Relied  upon  in  matters  that  required 

Attention.     He  impressed  me  favorably." 

"  He  did,"  returned  she,  with  an  absent  air ; 

"I  recollect  it  now;  he  did."     "  I  wonder  what 

Has  brought  him  here,"  replied  her  uncle  ;  "  I 

Suppose  that  White  has  sent  him  out  on  some 

Commission  to  the  colony ;  I  heard 

He  had  some  dealings  there."     "  Most  likely,"  she 

Responded  in  a  final  way,  as  if 

No  farther  interest  attached  to  what 

They  talked  of.     After  a  short  pause,  she  said, 

With  animation  —  "  Uncle,  do  you  know 

What  I've  been  thinking  of?  "     "  Of  Merton  Hall, 

Of  course,"  Sir  Horace  smiling  said  ;  "  your  thoughts 

Are  always  hovering  there,  like  doves  around 

A  dove-cot."     "  I  was  thinking,"  she  resumed, 

"  Of  how  the  dear  old  place  must  now  be  bathed 

In  sunset  light,  and  looking  at  its  best. 

And  yet  I  know  not  why  I  say  '  its  best ; ' 

It  always  looks  its  best  —  the  best  —  to  me." 

She  laughed  at  her  own  sally,  and  went  on 

To  talk  of  their  return  to  their  loved  home. 


8  THE     TRUST. 

I  saw  Sir  Horace  Merton's  face  assume 
A  sudden  sad  expression  :  but  it  cleared 
Away  again,  when  she  looked  up  at  him. 
Some  mornings  after  this  I  noticed  him 
Upon  the  deck  alone.     As  he  caught  sight 
Of  me,  he  beckoned  me  to  join  him  where 
He  stood.     He  spoke  most  courteously,  —  nay,  with 
A  kindly,  almost  friendly  tone  :  he  said 
It  gave  him  pleasure  to  have  met  with  one 
Who  came  from  Merton  village,  seeming  like 
A  neighbor,  —  one  long  known  :  he  asked  my  name, 
And  told  me  that  he  took  a  liking  to 
Me  when  I  came  that  time  to  Merton  Hall ; 
That  I  inspired  him  with  belief  in  my 
True  faithfulness  and  manly  character. 
I  bowed  my  thanks,  but  nothing  said ;  I  was 
So  taken  by  surprise  at  this  address. 
"  Away  from  home,"  he  said,  "  I  feel  the  want 
Of  some  one  I  can  talk  to  as  a  friend, 
To  whom  I  may  confide  the  fear  that  stings 
Me  now  acutely,  for  my  niece's  sake. 
I  feel  my  health  is  failing  fast,  and  should 
I  die,  she  will  be  left  in  foreign  lands 
Alone  and  unprotected.     Helme,  if  so, 


THE     TRUST.  I, 

I  look  to  you  to  guard  her,  think  for  her, 

Watch  over  her  unceasingly,  and  see 

Her  safely  home  again  to  Merton  Hall. 

Remember,  Helme,  I  trust  her  to  your  care 

When  I  am  gone,  if  go  I  must,  while  we 

Are  far  from  home.     It  may  seem  strange  to  place 

Such  confidence  in  one  of  whom  I  know 

So  little  ;  but  there's  something  in  your  look 

That  tells  me  I  may  safely  trust  to  you, 

That  you'll  be  faithful  to  the  trust.     Do  you 

Accept  it,  Helme  ?  "  —  "I  do,"  was  all  I  said, 

With  earnest  firmness.     What  was  in  my  heart 

Myself  and  my  Creator  only  knew. 

"  And  now,"  Sir  Horace  said,  "  we'll  speak  no  more 

Of  this  ;  'tis  understood  between  us  two. 

I  would  not  have  my  niece  suspect  that  I 

Have  any  present  cause  to  fear  my  death ; 

'Twould  serve  no  purpose,  and  disquiet  her." 

He  turned  to  speak  of  other  things  ;  and  when 

His  niece  approached,  she  found  him  cheerfully 

In  talk  with  one  of  the  ship's  company, 

A  sailor,  whose  long  yarns  amused  him  oft 

I  kept  aloof,  thenceforward  as  before  ; 
Because  I  thought  I  could  perceive,  for  all 


20  THE     TRUST. 

Sir  Horace  thus  had  spoken  to  me,  that 
He  cared  not  I  should  join  him  when  his  niece 
Was  with  him.     Whether  it  was  from  dread 
That  Clarice  should  discover  what  he  feared, 
Or  whether  it  proceeded  from  a  sense 
That  she  shared  not  his  good  opinion  of 
Myself,  I  do  not  know ;  but  certain  'tis 
I  felt  that  he  was  better  pleased  I  should 
Not  speak  to  him  when  she  was  by.     Content 
It  should  be  thus,  I  fell  again  into 
My  way  of  watching  her  from  distance,  and, 
Unseen,  unnoticed,  making  her  the  one 
Bright  jewel  of  my  life. 

One  night  there  was 
Alarm  of  fire  aboard  the  ship  :  upon 
The  instant  all  was  noise,  confusion,  and 
Distress.     I  started  up,  threw  on  my  clothes, 
And  hurried  upon  deck.     Already  had 
The  flames  advanced,  and  now  were  licking  their 
Dread  way  aloft,  among  the  shrouds  and  rigging. 
Amid  the  burning  glare  I  sudden  saw 
Sir  Horace  and  his  niece,  —  a  ghastly  group. 
Half  dead  with  terror,  she  had  sunk  down  at 
His  feet,  and  held  her  face  within  her  hands. 


THE     TRUST.  21 

He  called  to  me  aloud  from  where  he  stood :  — 

"  For  God's  sake,  help  her  if  you  can,  good  friend  ! 

Remember,  Helme,  the  charge,  the  trust,  I  gave ! " 

He  reeled  and  fell,  the  moment  after,  crushed 

By  falling  fragments  of  a  blazing  mast. 

I  snatched  her  from  the  spot  and  drew  her  towards 

A  spar  I  saw,  and  knew  would  float ;  to  which 

I  fastened  her :  she  made  attempt  to  free 

Herself  from  my  endeavor ;  but  I  said  : 

"  Your  uncle  charged  me  to  take  care  of  you  ; 

He  trusted  you  to  me,  and  bade  me  try 

To  save  you."     Then  she  yielded,  and  allowed 

Me  do  whate'er  I  would  that  I  thought  best. 

I  hardly  know  how  afterwards  I  found 
Myself  upon  the  red-reflected  waves, 
My  precious  spar  in  tow,  held  by  one  hand, 
While  with  the  other  I  struck  out  and  swam 
For  life,  for  very  life,  —  my  own,  and  one 
Far  dearer  than  my  own.     I  made  some  way : 
When  all  at  once  there  came  a  noise  that  seemed 
To  rend  the  air  asunder,  split  the  sky. 
The  flames  had  reached  the  gunpowder :  the  ship 
Blew  up  :  and  not  a  soul  survived  the  wreck. 
But  —  crowning  horror  of  the  whole  to  me  — 


22  THE     TRUST. 

The  roughness  of  the  surge,  the  heave,  the  swell, 

At  moment  when  the  ship  blew  up  had  wrenched 

My  spar  away,  had  torn  it  from  my  grasp, 

And  borne  it  out  of  sight.     A  long  loud  cry 

Of  anguish  and  despair  broke  from  me,  and 

I  wept  aloud  in  agony  of  heart. 

The  roaring  waters  dashed  in  mockery 

Against  my  face,  and  swept  my  tears  away 

As  fast  as  they  welled  forth.     Instinctively 

I  struggled  on  ;  but  now  had  lost  my  wish       s 

For  safety.     What  was  life  henceforth  to  me  ? 

Why  should  I  try  to  save  it  if  I  could 

Not  save  the  one  was  life  of  life  to  me  ? 

The  bitter  misery  of  that  lone  hour, 

When,  toiling  on  through  buffet  of  the  waves, 

The  fierce  emotions  raging  in  my  soul 

Were  wilder  than  the  horrors  of  the  night, 

I  shudder  to  recall :  but  after  I 

Had  swum  a  weary  space,  and  felt  upon  • 

The  point  of  sinking,  I  became  aware 

That  I  was  now  in  smoother  water,  where 

My  feet  touched  ground.     Another  stroke  or  two 

Soon  brought  me  to  the  shore.     A  scene  it  was 

Of  almost  magic  beauty  and  repose : 


THE     TRUST, 

A  tropic  moon  shed  broad  effulgence  o'er 

A  stretch  of  wooded  sward  that  skirted  round 

A  sheltered  bay ;  tall  palm-trees  rose  against 

A  starry  sky  of  deep  and  cloudless  blue ; 

Unbroken  silence  reigned :  but  all  this  peace 

And  harmony  of  loveliness  externe 

Contrasted  with  the  war  within  myself. 

"  Why  did  I  escape  when  she  is  lost  ? " 

Was  still  the  cry  of  my  distracted  heart. 

I  wrung  my  hands,  and  flung  myself  full  length ; 

Then  started  up,  and  wandered  madly  on, 

I  knew  not,  cared  not  whither,  in  my  grief. 

Along  the  margin  of  the  moon-lit  bay 

My  steps  conveyed  me,  till  I  saw  before 

Me  on  the  ground  a  prostrate  form :  I  sprang 

To  it :  oh,  joy  of  joy  !     'Twas  hers,  'twas  hers  ! 

Borne  onward  by  the  influx  of  the  tide, 

The  spar  had  drifted  safely  towards  the  shore, 

And  landed  on  the  bay's  smooth  shelving  sand. 

She  senseless  lay ;  her  eyes  were  closed  ;  her  hair 

Hung  loose  in  tangled  masses,  scattered  wide. 

A  piteous  sight :  but,  still,  she  breathed,  she  lived  ! 

I  gently  disengaged  her  from  the  spar ; 

I  raised  her  tenderly  from  off  the  sand, 


24  THE    TRUST. 

And  carried  her  to  where  the  greensward  made 

A  better  resting-place.     I  chafed  her  hands  ; 

And  soon  I  had  the  comfort  of  a  change : 

A  flutter  of  the  breath,  a  quiver  of 

The  eyelids :  then  the  eyes  were  opened  with 

A  dreamy  wandering  look  that  finally 

Met  mine.    u  You  know  me  ?  "  whispered  I ;  "  you  .do  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  —  yes  ;  —  I  think  you  are  the  person  that 

My  uncle  liked."     She  sighed  and  closed  her  eyes  ; 

As  though  'twere  too  much  effort  yet  to  think. 

Just  near  to  where  we  were  there  was  a  knoll 

Of  rocky  moss-grown  ground,  in  which  I  saw 

A  deep  recess,  a  hollow,  like  a  cave  : 

To  this  I  bore  her ;  placed  her  on  a  couch 

Of  soft  dry  leaves  I  piled  up  high,  and  left 

Her  to  the  healing  balm  of  sleep. 

I  kept 

Incessant  watch  that  night  around  the  cave, 
But  naught  approached  to  frighten  or  molest. 
The  place  seemed  desert,  perfect  solitude ; 
But  whether  it  were  continent  or  isle 
I  knew  not.     It  abounded  with  wild  fruits  ; 
Among  the  bluffs  and  cliffs  beyond  the  bay 
A  multitude  of  sea-birds  laid  their  eggs ; 


THE     TRUST. 

Innumerable  shell-fish  swarmed  the  beach, 
And  clustered  on  dwarf  rocks  beneath  the  cliffs : 
So,  food  there  lacked  not  in  this  land  of  fair 
Seclusion. 

After  the  first  violence 

Of  grief  had  passed  for  her  lovecl  uncle's  loss, 
Sweet  Clarice  drooped  into  an  apathy, 
A  languor  of  indifference  to  all 
Around,  the  most  pathetic  :  she  took  note 
Of  nothing,  interest  in  nothing,  cared 
For  nothing,  ate  the  meals  I  brought,  arranged 
The  flowers  I  culled,  accepted  all  I  did, 
And  acquiesced  in  all  I  ventured  to 
Suggest  for  her  behoof ;  but,  listlessly, 
And  with  a  perfect  quietude,  she  showed 
That  she  did  not  intend  to  rouse  herself ; 
She  meant  to  be  her  own  sole  guide ;  she  held 
Her  will  alone  responsible  to  rule 
Her  ways  ;  and  if  her  ways  were  moody,  sad, 
Why,  sad  and  moody  they  should  be,  if  so 
She  chose.     She  surely  was  the  mistress  and 
Best  judge  of  her  own  acts  ?  and  to  -preserve 
Volition  independently  of  me  ? 
To  live  her  life  thus  irrespectively  of 


I 


26  THE     TRUST. 

My  approof  ?     She  seemed  resolved  to  let 
Me  see  how,  notwithstanding  fate  had  thrown 
Her  on  my  hands,  she  still  reserved  her  right 
Of  born  supremacy.     All  this  was  not 
Asserted  ;  nay,  far  from  it.     But  it  was 
To  be  inferred  from  every  look  and  tone,  — 
The  eloquence  of  tacit,  passive  will 
In  ladies  of  high  birth  to  one  beneath . 
Themselves. 

One  evening,  when  I  brought 
Her  supper  of  wild  honey,  bread-fruit,  and 
Some  pearly  eggs,  I  was  about  to  leave 
Her  that  I  might  go  eat  my  own  apart 
As  usual.     With  a  slight  and  languid  lift 
Of  her  bent  head,  she  murmured  :  "  Where  do  you 
Contrive  to  lodge  ?     You  make  this  cave  my  house,  - 
A  very  roomy,  comfortable  one  it  is, 
With  tapestry  of  moss,  and  curtained  well 
By  long  festoons  of  pendent  climbing  plants  ; 
A  perfect  bower  of  graceful  green-clad  warmth, 
Yet  shade  ;  a  mingling  of  dry  roof,  dry  walls, 
With  freshness  of  the  open  air,  due  heat 
And  cool  combined ;  just  what  a  house  should  be,- 
But  where  do  you  reside  ? "     I  told  her  I 


THE     TRUST.  2/ 

Had  shelter  found  within  a  crevice-nook 

Of  rock,  not  far  from  her  house-cave.     "And  is 

It  tolerably  habitable  ?  "  she 

Inquired,  with  half  a  smile.     "  We're  neighbors  still, 

It  seems,  as  we  were  formerly,  I  heard. 

Oh,  by  the  bye,  what  is  your  name  ?     I  don't 

Know  even  that ;  and  it  is  fit  I  know 

My  neighbor's  name."     I  told  her  it  was  Helme. 

"A  name  most  suitable,  indeed,"  she  said, 

A  little  scornfully.     "  You've  been  the  helm 

To  guide  me  into  port,  to  steer  me  safe, 

And  to  control  my  course  e'er  since  you  brought 

Me  to  this  haven ;  but  a  helm's  control, 

You  know,  exists  on  sea  and  not  on  land ; 

It  ceases  to  have  power  when  on  shore." 

"A  helm  exerts  his  agency  when  need 

Demands,  and  when  the  helmsman's  hand  doth  sway," 

I  answered  quietly  :  "  the  hand  doth  rule, 

The  helm  doth  but  obey  the  hand.     Your  hand 

Shall  give  the  signal  when  the  helm  exceeds 

Its  proper  office."     I  withdrew  as  I 

Said  this  ;  and  afterwards  I  noticed  that 

Her  manner  changed  to  less  of  frigidness 

And  distance.     But  it  varied  much ;  and  she 


28  THE     TRUST. 

Was  sometimes  querulous,  perverse,  just  like 

A  petted  saucy  child  ;  at  others,  she 

Was  pensive,  absent,  wrapped  in  her  own  thoughts ; 

But  always  ladylike  and  polished,  and 

Supreme  in  native  beauty  most  refined. 

In  one  of  her  despondent  moods,  I  tried 
To  waken  in  her  a  desire  to  see 
And  know  more  of  the  place  in  which  we  lived : 
To  visit  some  adjacent  spots  that  in 
Themselves  were  charming,  and  commanded  views 
Of  exquisite  enchantment ;  for  I  knew 
That  exercise  and  freshened  interest 
In  all  that  Nature  had  so  plenteously 
Bespread  around  us  on  this  fertile  land 
Of  rich  production,  beautiful,  profuse, 
And  genial  in  extreme,  would  serve  to  bring 
Her  back  to  healthfuller  condition.     "  Will 
You  not  attempt  a  walk  to  yonder  point, 
Miss  Merton  ? "  I  once  asked.     "  You  know  not  how 
Transcendent  is  the  prospect  thence  attained. 
It  grandly  stretches  far  along  the  coast 
Beyond  this  bay,  and  is  a  matchless  scene. 
The  headland  is  within  your  easy  reach, 
And  will  not  over-tax  your  strength  to  climb." 


THE     TRUST.  29 

"  I  am  not  easily  fatigued,"  she  said  ; 

"  I  thank  you,  but  I  care  not  for  fine  views, 

New  scenes.     I  told  my  uncle  so,  once  on 

A  time,"  she  sadly  added  ;  "  there's  no  place 

To  equal  Merton  Hall,  in  my  regard." 

"  Alas,  that  you  must  wait  ere  you  can  hope 

To  see  it !  "  I  replied.     "  Who  knows  if  I 

Shall  ever  see  the  dear  old  place  again  !  " 

She  said  with  falling  tears,  then  checked  herself, 

And  muttered  :  "  Ah,  —  this  walk  —  suppose  I  were 

To  take  it  after  all  ?     I  may  as  well, 

Since  you  think  it  would  do  me  good  ;  you  are 

My  medical  adviser,  Doctor  Helme, 

As  well  as  my  adviser  general, 

You  know,  at  present,  when  I  must  depend 

On  you  for  counsel,  as  for  all."     She  spoke 

With  touch  of  bitterness  in  her  sad  tone  ; 

Then  said  abruptly  :  "  Forgive  me  ;  I 

Am  most  ungracious,  and  ungrateful  too, 

I  feel ;  but  you  will  pardon  what  must  seem 

Ingratitude  for  all  that  you  have  done 

And  been  to  me,  when  you  remember  my 

Indulgent  nurture,  from  my  earliest  years. 

It  little  did  to  well  prepare  me  for 


3o  THE     TRUST. 

The  trials  I  have  met  with,  and  the  strange 

Sad  fate  that  has  been  mine."   "  More  strange  than  e'en 

Your  own  sad  fate  appears  to  me  the  word 

Of  '  pardon  '  in  your  mouth,  as  asked  by  you 

From  me,  Miss  Merton,"  I  returned ;  "  l  forgive  ' 

I  cannot,  since  there's  nothing  to  forgive." 

"  There  is,"  she  answered  quickly  ;  "  ah,  there  is  ; 

I  know  it  but  too  well ;  I'm  angry  with 

Myself  when  I  think  over  my  remiss 

Unthankfulness  to  you,  kind  Helme,  who  saved 

My  life  at  sea,  and  have  preserved  it  since. 

I  do  not  think  I  should  have  been  so  base, 

So  wanting  in  due  gratitude,  while  I 

Was  mistress  of  our  old  ancestral  home. 

How  is  it  that  I've  altered  thus,  and  grown 

So  other  than  my  girlish  self  ?  "     She  turned 

Away,  as  she  concluded,  and  set  forth 

To  take  the  rambling  walk  I  had  proposed. 

On  her  return  she  came  to  where  I  was 

Engaged  in  fashioning  a  rude  attempt 

At  garden  near  her  cave,  and  stood  beside 

Me  while  I  trained  some  climbing  roses  up  : 

She  watched  me  silently  for  a  brief  space, 

Then  said  abruptly,  "  What  was  it  you  meant,  — 


THE     TRUST.  31 

Aboard  the  burning  ship,  when,  firm  and  strong, 
You  lashed  me  to  the  saving  spar,  —  by  those 
Few  words  you  said,  '  Your  uncle  charged  me  to 
Take  care  of  you ;  ,he  trusted  you  to  me  '  ? 
What  did  they  mean  ?  "     "  They  meant  what  they  ex- 
pressed ; 

For  once  Sir  Horace  gave  you  to  my  charge, 
Enjoined  me  to  watch  over  you,  to  guard 
You  if  he  died  while  in  a  foreign  land, 
And  see  you  safely  back  to  Merton  Hall." 
"  He  did  ?  "     "  He  did  ;  he  dreaded  that  his  death 
Might  happen  any  unexpected  time, 
And  leave  you  unprotected,  far  from  home. 
No  less  he  dreaded  that  his  fear  might  reach 
Yourself,  and  keep  you  haunted  with  alarm 
For  him."     "  Dear  uncle,  ever  thoughtful,  kind, 
And  provident  for  welfare  of  your  child, 
Your  Clarice  !  "  she  exclaimed.     "  Then  this  was  what 
Your  own  words  signified,  when  'mid  the  flames 
I  heard  you  cry,  -  Remember,  Helme,  the  charge, 
The  trust  I  gave  ! '  "     "  It  was,"  I  said  ;  "  you  heard 
Them,  then,  yourself  ?  "     "I  heard  them  plainly,"  she 
Replied  ;  "  and  wondered,  even  in  that  wild 
And  fearful  moment,  at  his  strange  accost. 


32  THE     TRUST. 

And  surely  'twas  most  strange  he  should  intrust 

His  niece  to  one  well-nigh  unknown  and  quite 

Unproved."     "  There  are  some  natures  thus  at  once 

Confiding,  ready  to  believe  in  what 

They  think  they  see  plain  written  in  a  face 

Of  honest  look,"  I  answered.     "  True,"  she  said ; 

"  There  are ;  and  my  dear  uncle  had  himself 

This  readiness  to  put  his  faith  in  those 

He  thought  seemed  worthy  of  his  confidence. 

And  so,  it  now  appears,  he  trusted  you. 

He  gave  me  to  your  charge  in  solemn  trust, 

You  say ;  what  were  the  special  points  enjoined 

By  this  same  trust  ?     How  far  does  it  extend  ?  " 

"  I  told  you,"  I  replied  ;  "  it  bade  me  guard, 

Watch  over  you,  and  do  my  utmost  to 

Ensure  your  safety  while  away  from  home ; 

And  then  to  see  you  safely  back  again 

To  Merton  Hall."     "My  '  safety,' "  partly  to 

Herself  repeated  she  ;  "  and  then  to  see 

Me  '  safely  '  back  to  Merton  Hall.     Ay,  l  safe  ' 

And  well  protected,  ever  was  his  care 

That  I  should  be  ;  my  kind  good  uncle  !  "     As 

She  murmured  these  last  words  she  moved  away, 

And  went  into  the  cave  to  sit  alone. 


THE     TRUST.  33 

But,  some  time  after,  she  returned  again 
To  subject  of  the  trust.     It  happened  thus. 
I  had  been  warning  her  against  too  late 
Protracting  her  long  walks  —  which  often  now 
She  took  —  at  eventide.     "  It  is  the  hour 
Of  sunset  that  is  most  especially 
To  be  avoided,"  I  had  said.     "  In  these 
Hot  climates,  while  the  sun  is  going  down, 
There  comes  a  sudden  chill  into  the  air, 
Insidious,  treacherous,  and  not  to  be 
Encountered  without  really  perilous 
Effect :  I  hope,  I  beg,  you  will  not  thus 
Run  risk  of  being  out  at  just  that  hour 
Of  danger."     "What!  grave  Doctor  Hehne  again 
Prescribing  ?     Is  it  his  good  pleasure  that 
I  make  my  exercise,  my  air,  my  hours, 
Accord  with  his  opinion,  his  most  sage 
Decree  ?     Is  this  included  in  the  trust 
He  undertook  ?     Does  it  empower  him 
To  guard  my  health,  to  watch  my  hours,  dispose 
My  time,  appoint  my  walks  ?  "     "  The  trust  enjoined 
Me  to  keep  watch,  to  guard,  and  to  ensure 
Your  safety  with  my  utmost  care  ;  I  know 
It  is  not  safe  to  walk  at  sunset,  and 

2*  C 


34  THE     TRUST. 

I  frankly  tell  you  so,  in  consonance 

With  one  injunction  of  the  trust  which  I 

Intend  to  steadily  fulfil  throughout, 

If  so  I  be  permitted,"  I  replied. 

"  Permitted  ?  "  echoed  she  ;  "  by  me,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  By  Heaven's  will  and  blest  vouchsafement,"  I 

Returned.     She  paused  an  instant ;  then  resumed  : 

"  Am  I  to  understand  that  you  engaged 

In  this  same  trust  —  and  now  intend  to  use 

The  full  authority  it  gives  for  you 

To  carry  out  its  dictates,  and  perform 

The  duties  it  enjoins  —  in  deference 

To  my  dear  uncle's  wish,  or  for  the  sake 

Of  benefiting  me  ?     Was  it  alone 

Because  you  thought  to  satisfy  his  mind, 

Or  from  the  thought  that  I  require  your  care  ?  — 

In  short,  to  please  my  uncle,  or  please  me, 

Did  you  accept,  and  now  enforce  this  trust  ? " 

"  There  could  have  been  no  thought  of  pleasing  you, 

Miss  Merton,  when  I  pledged  myself  to  take 

The  trust  your  uncle  gave.     He  charged  me  to 

Fulfil  it  faithfully  ;  and  so  I  mean  to  do, 

Please  God  !  "     She  said  no  more,  but  turned  to  look 

At  some  white  blossoms,  growing  close  at  hand. 


THE     TRUST. 


35 


Another  time,  a  captiousness,  a  half 
Caprice  and  lady  wilfulness  displayed 
Themselves  in  her  demeanor.     "  I  have  found 
Some  little  purple  blossoms  that  remind 
Me  of  sweet  English  violets  ;  I  thought 
That  you  would  like  them  planted  near 
Your  cave,  Miss  Merton,  so  have  brought  you  home 
These  clumps  with  roots."     "  I  thank  you,  Helme,"  she 

said  ; 

But  looked  another  way,  with  careless  air. 
The  Merton  lane,  the  roadside  stile,  the  hedge 
Near  which  I  had  so  often  lingered  that 
I  might  have  chance  of  seeing  Clarice  pass, 
And  where  I  used  to  see  the  violets 
In  spring-time  lurk  beneath  that  hedge,  came  full 
Upon  my  mind  ;  but  memory  I  quenched, 
And  said  sedately :  "  Will  you  tell  me  where 
You  best  would  like  them  placed,  Miss  Merton  ?     They 
Require  the  shade,  and,  if  you  please,  I'll  plant 
Them  here."     I  pointed  to  the  spot  I  meant. 
She  did  not  answer  for  a  moment ;  and 
I  looked  at  her  for  my  directions.     Then, 
Still  keeping  her  fair  face  half  turned  away :  — 
"  Pray  call  me  Clarice,"  she  exclaimed,  in  a 


36  THE     TRUST. 

Disdainful  pettish  way  ;  "  I  cannot  bear 

The  name  l  Miss  Merton  ; '  it  reminds  me  of 

My  old  lost  home  and  all  its  bygone  joys." 

I  started ;  I  had  used  it  to  myself 

A  thousand  times,  —  her  sweet,  sweet  Christian  name  ; 

But  use  it  to  herself  I  dared  not ;  no, 

I  dared  not ;  for  I  knew  how  it  would  stir 

.My  manhood,  and  betray  the  love  I  vowed 

To  keep  concealed  within  my  heart. 

"  I  cannot  call  you  so,  excuse  me,"  I 

Replied ;  "  I  cannot  do  it,  e'en  to  please 

Yourself ;  forgive  me."     "  Oh,"  she  quickly  said, 

"  I  make  no  point  of  it,  since  you  will  not 

Comply.     Pray  please  yourself,  not  me  ;  I  care 

Not  what  I'm  called,  not  I,  now  happiness 

Is  gone."     She  burst  into  a  passion  of 

Sad  tears  ;  and  there  was  nothing  left  for  me 

To  do  but  try  and  soothe  her  grief.     At  times 

She  was  thus  petulant  and  wayward  ;  but 

At  others  gentle,  smiling,  docile  to 

My  slightest  wish.     I  could  not  make  her  out. 

And  yet  sometimes  I  now  began  to  have 

A  fancy  I  could  guess  but  only  too, 

Too  well  what  wrought  these  changes  in  her  mood. 


THE     TRUST.  37 

I  was  dismayed  at  my  own  thought,  and  put 
It  from  me  when  it  would  recur  and  still 
Recur. 

Next  time  we  were  together,  she 
Was  in  a  sportively  despotic  vein. 
"  As  you  would  not  consent  to  call  me  by 
My  Christian  name,"  she  said,  "  now  tell  me  yours  : 
I  want%to  know  it."     "Mine  is  Edward,"  I 
Replied.     "  A  good  old  Saxon  name,"  she  said ; 
"  One  borne  by  British  kings.     I  like  it  well ; 
And  somewhere  I  have  read  its  meaning  is,  — 
Stay  — '  Happy  Guarder,'  l  Keeper/  <  Warder.'     Ay, 
It  is  ;  I  recollect ;  and  suited  to  yourself 
No  less  than  is  your  surname.     Let  me  see ; 
I  like  not  surnames  in  a  woman's  mouth 
Addressed  to  men.     I  think  henceforth  I'll  call 
You  Edward  Helme ;  it  so  exactly  hits 
Your  character.     Yes  —  Edward  —  Edward ; "  she 
Repeated  in  approving  tone  ;  "  it  sounds 
Appropriate  and  true."     To  hear  her  thus 
Repeat  my  name,  affected  me  with  strange 
Emotion  ;  but,  according  to  my  wont, 
I  held  my  feelings  under  strong  control, 
And  naught  appeared  of  agitation  in 


38  THE    TRUST. 

My  speech  or  look.     I  more  and  more  resolved 

On  this,  the  more  I  grew  confirmed  in  my 

Suspicion  of  the  source  from  whence  arose 

These  variable  moods.     What  would  have  made 

My  proudest,  fondest  hope,  had  she  been  where 

She  could  have  still  remained  free  mistress  of 

Herself  to  give  or  to  withhold,  now  formed 

My  torture.     Here,  in  this  lone  wilderness,  — 

Dependent  as  she  was  upon  myself 

For  sustenance,  for  all,  —  and  where  no  rite 

Of  holy  union  could  be  ours,  —  how  dared 

I  risk  betrayal  of  my  love,  which  might 

Draw  forth  the  sweet  confession  of  her  own 

For  me,  if  such  indeed  existed  ?     Should 

I  break  my  faith  and  violate  the  trust 

So  solemnly  confided  to  my  charge,  — 

So  solemnly  accepted  by  myself  ? 

No ;  never :  come  what  might,  I  would  be  true 

And  loyal  to  the  death.     None  knew  the  cost, 

The  struggle,  the  incessant  agony 

Of  this  protracted  strife  between  my  love 

And  my  resolve,  but  God :  and  He  gave  strength 

To  vanquish  self,  and  to  preserve  my  trust. 

"Your  good  sea-jacket  looks  the  worse  for  wear," 


THE     TRUST. 


39 


She  once  said,  smiling  with  a  half  shy  glance 

At  it ;  "I  wish  you'd  let  me  mend  this  rent." 

Then,  recollecting,  she  went  on  :  "  But,  ah, 

Forgetful  that  I  am !  I  have  no  thread, 

No  needle,  nothing  that  a  woman  should 

Possess  who  claims  to  be  good  huswife,  as 

I  was  at  home."     "  A  huswife  ?     You  !  "  I  cried. 

"  Why  not  ?     A  Lady  of  the  Manor  should 

Be  notable,  remedial,  practical, 

Well  able  to  perform  all  useful  things." 

"  Is  mending  Edward  Helme's  apparel  one  ? 

Strange  task,  methinks,  for  any  lady ;  for 

A  Lady  of  the  Manor,  above  all." 

"  It  may  be  strange,  but  strange  has  been  the  lot 

Of  this  poor  Lady  of  the  Manor,"  said 

Sweet  Clarice,  pensively ;  "  and  strange  tasks  fall 

To  those  who  suffer  strange  reverse.     Why  should 

I  not  perform  a  simple  office  for 

A  friend  who  has  performed  such  onerous 

And  endless  ones  for  me  ? "     "A  friend  ? "  I  said, 

In  lowest  tone  \  "  do  you  call  Edward  Helme 

A  friend  ? "     "A  more  than  friend,"  she  answered  with 

A  faltering  voice  ;  "  an  earthly  providence, 

One  sent  by  Providence  itself  to  help 


40  THE    TRUST. 

Me  in  my  utmost  need.     What  would  have  been 

My  fate  had  you  not  saved  and  tended  me  ?  — 

Become  my  good  protector  and  my  friend  ? 

I  well  may  call  you  '  friend/  "  concluded  she 

With  earnestness.     I  made  her  no  reply : 

How  could  I,  and  preserve  my  secret  still  ? 

We  both  remained  in  silence  for  a  time : 

And  then  I  quietly  arose,  and  went 

To  find  some  work :  some  good  hard  work  might  serve 

To  quell  the  torment  I  endured.     For  I 

Had  found  that  manual  labor,  bodily 

Exertion,  best  assuaged  the  tumults  of 

My  mind.     And  thus  I  made  a  hundred  things 

Were  needed  for  the  cave :  odd,  useful,  quaint 

Utensils  of  ornate  device,  and  form 

Antique  :  her  moss-grown  house  of  rock  was  filled 

With  plates  and  dishes,  drinking-cups  and  jugs, 

Or  graceful  pateras  for  holding  flowers, 

Deft  moulded  from  the  clay  and  baked  in  the 

Hot  furnace  of  a  tropic  sun ;  with  knacks 

And  trifles,  curiously  carved  and  wrought 

In  wood  by  my  good  clasp-knife,  which,  most  true 

To  boyish  habit,  never  left  me,  and 

Was  in  my  pocket  when  I  'scaped  the  wreck. 


THE     TRUST.  41 

While  working  hard  for  Clarice  I  less  felt 
The  trouble  at  my  heart :  and,  as  I  toiled, 
I  whistled  softly  to  myself  some  old 
Remembered  tune  or  village  song. 

When  next 

We  met,  she  had  resumed  her  cold  reserve  ; 
Which  gave  way  once  —  but  once  again  —  before 
It  settled  into  steadily  maintained 
Return  to  freezing  distance,  as  of  old. 
The  conflicts  I  went  through,  the  strict  restraints 
I  put  upon  myself,  the  guard  I  kept 
On  every  speech  and  word,  on  every  look 
And  tone,  began  to  tell  severely  on 
My  frame,  as  now  I  learned  from  what  she  said :  — 
"  You  are  not  looking  well ;  you're  pale,  you're  thin. 
You  work  too  hard,  —  you  toil  from  morn  to  night ; 
You  ought  to  have  some  rest.     Let  me  prescribe,  — 
I  followed  your  prescriptions  once,  you  know, 
So  now  take  mine.     I  used  to  be  a  kind 
Of  Lady  Bountiful,  among  the  odds 
And  ends  of  things  I  did  as  Lady  of 
The  Manor.     Let  me  order  you  some  rest ; 
You  are  not  looking  well,  —  indeed  you're  not." 
Her  eyes  dwelt  gently  on  my  face,  her  hand 


42  THE     TRUST. 

Was  raised  as  if  about  to  lay  itself 

On  mine  ;  her  tone  was  womanly  and  low,  — 

Nay,  tender,  in  its  soft  persuasiveness. 

I  was  so  moved,  so  passionately  moved, 

By  her  appeal,  that  for  a  moment  I 

Had  nigh  forgotten  all,  —  my  pledge,  my  vowed 

Forbearance,  and  my  trust ;  but  tore  myself 

Away  in  time  and  left  her.     "  Stony,  hard, 

Insensible,  she  must  believe  me  !  "  I 

Exclaimed,  as,  writhing  under  my  distress, 

I  plunged  into  the  forest  depths,  that  I 

Might  wrestle  with  my  pangs  alone.     In  her 

Unconscious  innocence,  how  should  she  know 

Or  understand  the  reason  why  I  must 

And  ought  to  shun  the  growing  tokens 

Of  her  most  generous  affection,  if 

I  still  would  keep  my  plighted  word,  rny  faith, 

My  honor,  in  allegiance  to  my  trust  ? 

"  For  her  dear  sake,  for  hers,  I  must  and  will ! " 

Was  ever  now  the  secret  sentence  which 

Sustained  me  through  my  fierce  ordeal  fire, 

And  kept  my  courage  constant  to  the  last. 

The  last  was  close  at  hand.     Soon  after  our 

Late  interview,  we  clear  descried  a  ship 


THE     TRUST. 

That  neared  our  coast,  put  in  for  water  to 
Our  bay,  and  proved  to  be  a  merchantman, 
Far  driven  from  its  course  by  adverse  winds. 
The  captain  took  us  both  on  board,  and  we 
Set  sail  for  England. 

On  the  voyage  home 
Fair  Clarice  held  the  level  calm  of  her 
Indifference  and  lady  quietude ; 
It  served  at  once  to  re-establish  the 
Old  space  that  set  herself  and  me  apart ; 
It  tended  more  than  aught  else  could  have  done 
To  cast  behind  us  the  strange  episode 
Of  desert  life  that  we  together  spent, 
As  something  done  with,  past,  for  ever  gone. 
She  was  all  suavity  and  graciousness ; 
Presented  me  to  the  sea-captain  as 
The  saver  and  preserver  of  her  life ; 
She  praised  my  courage  and  fidelity ; 
Dwelt  largely  on  the  energy  and  zeal, 
The  spirit  and  the  self-possession  I 
Displayed  amid  the  horrors  of  the  wreck  j 
Still  making  that,  and  not  our  desert  life, 
The  theme  of  her  repeated  narrative. 
It  wrung  my  heart  to  hear  her  thus  polite, 


43 


44  THE     TRUST. 

Thus  courteous,  bland,  conventional,  and  marked 

In  her  acknowledgment  of  what  I'd  done. 

But  I  accepted  patiently  her  will, 

Her  tacitly  expressed  decree,  that  I 

Should  be  again  no  more  than  Edward  Helme, 

That  she  should  be  again  Miss  Merton  of 

The  Hall.     I  sometimes  felt  inclined  to  smite 

A  little  bitterly  at  this  decree, 

When  I  remembered  the  relations  in 

Which  lately  we  had  stood  together ;  she 

The  helpless,  homeless  waif,  tossed  to  and  fro 

By  unregardful  waves,  then  cast  ashore 

Like  some  stray  piece  of  sea-weed,  broken  from 

Its  fellows,  till  up-gathered  by  the  hand 

Of  one  that  sees  its  native  beauty,  and 

Doth  keep  it,  value  it,  nay,  treasure  it 

For  its  inherent  loveliness  and  grace  : 

While  I,  the  finder  of  the  waif,  did  play 

The  part  of  keeper,  guarder,  treasurer, 

In  tender  recognition  of  its  worth. 

She  said  the  name  of  Edward  meant  as  much, 

And  I  was  happy  in  the  privilege 

Of  being  to  her  these.     Well,  if  she  chose 

To  re-exchange  the  characters  we  played, 


THE     TRUST.  45 

And  be  to  me  protectress  and  benign 

Approver,  I  would  let  her  so  esteem 

Herself :  but,  once  arrived  on  English  land, 

I,  too,  would  back  return  to  my  old  first 

Condition,  —  quiet  watcher  from  afar. 

On  one  occasion,  while  on  board,  it  chanced 

That  she  and  I  were  left  together,  as 

She  leaned  against  the  side  and  watched  the  stars, 

That  one  by  one  came  peering  forth,  while  in 

The  east  the  sky  was  deepening  into  blue 

Of  darker  tint,  when  crimson  sunlight  failed. 

She  held  her  head  averted,  fixed  in  gaze 

Upon  the  firmament,  the  while  she  said : 

"  You  soon  will  be  relieved  of  your  strange  charge, 

Your  troublesome  and  duty-burdened  trust, 

Of  which  you  have  most  faithfully  discharged 

So  many  of  the  points  imposed  by  my 

Lost  uncle.     I,  obedient  to  his  will, 

Have  all  along  submitted  to  his  terms 

Without  complaint,  and  so  I  still  intend 

To  do,  until  you  see  me  safely  home  again ; 

As  bidden  by  the  trust.     When  once  we're  there 

The  limits  of  this  vaguely  worded  trust 

Can  be  defined,  adjusted  ;  for,  you  know,. 


46  THE     TRUST. 

We  never  could  agree  exactly  what 
It  was  that  it  enjoined.     But  this  can  wait 
Till  we  arrive."     She  stayed  for  no  reply, 
But  left  me  standing  'neath  the  starry  sky. 
To  that  mute  comforter  I  inwardly  appealed 
Against  the  stabs  her  words  had  been  to  me. 

We  reached  beloved  England  ;  and  when  there 
I  thought  we  should  have  parted  company 
At  once  ;  but  on  my  showing  this  to  be 
My  expectation,  she  declared  the  trust 
Would  not  be  validly  performed  until 
I  saw  her  "  safely  home."     That  "  home  "  did  not 
Mean  English  land  alone,  but,  in  her  case, 
Meant  Merton,  her  belov'd  ancestral  home ; 
"  The  words,  you  told  me,  of  my  uncle's  charge 
Were,  '  See  her  safely  back  to  Merton  Hall/ 
You  know ;  so  there  you  still  will  have  to  go." 
I  acquiesced,  and  I  escorted  her 
Unto  the  very  gates,  where  she  was  met 
By  friends  and  tenantry  with  welcome  loud 
And  joyfullest  amaze,  as  one  thought  dead, 
But  now  returned  to  be  once  more  the  prized 
Young  mistress  of  the  mansion  and  domain. 
I  made  escape  from  all  of  this  as  soon 


THE     TRUST. 


47 


As  I  discreetly  could,  and  took  my  leave. 

She  gave  a  smile  of  gracious,  affable 

Farewell,  while  saying,  "  Pray  remember,  I 

Expect  that  you  will  come  some  day,  when  we 

Can  settle  any  farther  claims  the  trust 

May  justify."     I  merely  bowed,  and  straight 

Withdrew,  reflecting  on  the  words  she  used  :  — 

"  She  spoke  of  l  claims.'   What  claims  ?   I  have  no  claims 

To  make :  no  claim  upon  her  gratitude, 

If  that  were  what  she  meant."     And  I  resolved 

That  I  would  go  no  more  to  Merton  Hall. 

Rejoicings  grand  and  festive  took  place  there, 

To  grace  her  first  arrival,  and  'twas  thought 

A  round  of  gay  assemblages  would  then 

Have  followed  these :  but  Clarice  Merton  lived 

A  life  retired,  sequestered,  when  she  had 

Performed  the  hostess-duty  that  she  owed 

To  greeters  in  her  circle  of  kind  friends. 

Deep  mourning  worn  for  her  lost  uncle  was 

The  cause  assigned  for  this  complete  and  close 

Seclusion  from  society ;  and  she 

Was  left  to  follow  her  own  chosen  course. 

Meanwhile  I  also  had  returned  to  Merton ;  sought 
My  old  employer ;  found  him  friendly  as 


48  THE     TRUST. 

He  ever  had  been  towards  me,  and  he  gave 

Me  cordial  welcome ;  told  me  how  the  news 

Had  reached  him  of  the  Wreck  :  how  he  believed 

I  perished  in  the  burning  ship  ;  and  how 

He  felt  assured  that  only  accident 

Akin  to  this  would  e'er  have  hindered  me 

From  executing  his  commission  ;  for 

He  knew  my  faithfulness  of  old,  he  said 

With  his  approving  smile  of  fatherly 

Regard.     He  made  me  take  up  quarters  in 

His  house,  as  I  had  always  done  :  but  now 

He  treated  me  more  like  a  son  than  clerk. 

"  I'm  growing  an  old  man,"  he  said,  "  and  feel 

The  want  of  help  and  younger  energy 

In  our  good  trade  :  from  you,  Ned,  I  can  count 

On  both,  I  know ;  so  stay  with  me,  and  give 

Me  what  I  need."     And  thus  it  was  arranged. 

I  heard  from  time  to  time,  through  village  talk, 
Of  Clarice.     It  was  said  she  lived  alone, 
Was  seldom  seen  beyond  the  Merton  grounds, 
Except  on  some  kind  quiet  errand  of 
Benevolence  and  gentle  charity  ; 
Some  visit  to  a  cottage,  where  distress 
Or  illness  called  for  aid  and  sympathy : 


THE     TRUST. 

Unostentatiously  and  privately 

She  went  about,  engaged  in  doing  good. 

A  thirst,  a  yearning,  irrepressible, 
To  see  her  once  again,  took  feverish 
Possession  of  me  :  I  grew  restless  and 
Unable  to  resist  the  strong  desire 
To  wander  forth  in  hope  of  one  last  chance 
That  I  might  look  upon  her  face,  —  myself 
Unseen,  unknown,  —  ere  I  took  leave  of  it 
For  ever.     In  the  throb,  the  rack  of  my 
Fierce  longing,  I  believed  that  if  I  could 
Behold  her  but  once  more,  I  would  persuade 
My  master  to  employ  me  where  I  might 
Promote  his  interests  away  from  our 
Small  country  village  ;  then  resolve  to  go 
And  never  to  return,  till  snow  of  age 
Had  settled  on  my  head  and  on  my  heart. 

Urged  by  my  burning  wish,  I  took  my  way 
One  evening  to  Merton  Lane,  and  leaned 
Upon  the  stile,  deep  musing  on  the  strange 
And  varied  scenes  I  had  beheld  since  last 
I  lingered  in  this  tranquil  place.     My  thoughts 
Were  soothed  to  something  like  serenity 
By  all  its  peaceful  sweetness  and  repose : 

3  D 


49 


50  THE     TRUST. 

The  trees  were  coming  into  leaf,  the  birds 

Were  chirping  their  last  hymn  before  the  sun 

Went  down  •  a  green  delicious  twilight  shed 

Its  softened  shade  upon  the  fading  gold 

Of  western  glow.     Ere  quite  'twas  passed,  I  spied 

Beneath  the  hedge  some  modest  violets 

Just  peering  'mid  the  grass.     With  eagerness, 

I  stooped  to  gather  the  sweet  blossoms,  fraught 

With  thousand  memories  as  fragrant  as 

Themselves :  I  fondled  them,  I  pressed  them  to 

My  lips,  inhaled  their  odorous  breath,  and 

Unconsciously  I  murmured  low-toned  words 

Of  soft  address  to  them ;  when  something  near, 

A  shadow,  a  dark  form,  attracted  my 

Attention,  and  I  saw  a  lady,  tall, 

And  clothed  in  black,  was  standing  but  a  pace 

Or  two  from  where  I  was.     So  noiseless 

Had  been  her  approach,  and  now  so  motionless, 

So  silently,  so  phantom-like  she  stood, 

That  well  I  might  have  thought  she  was  her  own 

Departed  spirit,  conjured  to  my  side 

By  my  intense  remembrance  of  herself : 

But,  at  a  glance,  I  knew  'twas  Clarice,  and 

With  hasty  impulse  thrust  the  violets 


THE     TRUST.  5  r 

Quick  in  my  breast,  and  hid  them  there.    She  smiled,  — 
I  thought  disdainfully,  —  and  turned  away 
Without  a  word.     I  walked  as  in  a  dream, 
Returning  home  like  one  who  had  beheld 
The  spectre  of  his  own  dead  happiness. 

That  night  there  came  a  note  from  Merton  Hall : 
It  ran  :  "  May  I  ask  you  to  come  to  me 
To-morrow  ? "     Signed  "  C.  M. :  "     No  more.     Its  curt 
Expression,  cold  politeness,  all  seemed  meant 
To  show  me  distantly  and  freezingly 
That  I  was  naught  to  her ;  that  I  was  but 
The  young  man,  Edward  Helme  \  she,  well-born,  rich, 
The  Lady  of  the  Hall :  and  yet,  to  me, 
As  I  stood  gazing  on  those  two  well-formed 
And  clear-cut  letters  of  her  name,  she  rose 
Before  me  as  herself  alone,  the  one 
Sole  woman  I  had  worshipped  when  a  boy ; 
The  woman  I  had  faithfully  preserved 
From  e'en  myself  and  her  own  guilelessness 
When  chance  intrusted  her  to  me  and  my 
Protecting  care  in  manhood :  peerless,  fair, 
Devoid  of  any  grace  conferred  by  birth 
Or  wealth,  her  own  sweet  self  presented  still 
To  my  adoring  thought  the  image  of  pure, 


52  THE     TRUST. 

Of  womanly  perfection. 

Sleep  for  me 
Was  none  that  night. 

Next  morning  I  went  up 
To  Merton  Hall ;  and  on  the  way  I  schooled 
My  beating  heart  to  quietude  might  vie 
With  hers,  —  that  calm  and  frigid  quietude 
I  knew  too  well  in  all  its  lady  force 
Of  well-bred  distance  and  cold  courtesy. 
I  found  her  on  the  terrace,  as  before : 
No  peacock  now  was  on  the  balustrade ; 
But  on  her  shoulder  perched  a  little  dove, 
That  from  her  palm  took  grain.     She  bowed  her  head 
To  me  as  I  approached ;  but  still  went  on 
Attending  to  her  bird,  that  fed  at  ease. 
Her  color  varied ;  but  she  strove  to  keep 
Both  look  and  voice  composed,  as  she,  with  eyes 
Still  bent  upon  the  dove,  said :  — 

"  You  would  not 

Oblige  me  by  remembering  my  request 
To  come,  that  we  might  settle  any  claims 
Remaining  unfulfilled  of  the  old  trust ; 
I  had  to  summon  you  by  letter,  and 
Subdue  whatever  lady's  pride  forbade 


THE     TRUST.  53 

My  writing  to  remind  you  of  my  wish : 

But  I  may  well  afford  to  sacrifice 

A  little  of  punctilio,  sure,  for  you ; 

Since  in  our  desert  life  were  levelled  all 

The  usual  forms  of  civilized  regard 

To  set  observances,  distinctions,  and 

Conventional  appointed  rules."     "You  speak 

Of  l  claims,'  "  I  answered  ;  "  I  am  not  aware 

That  any  claims  exist.     I  tried,  with  all 

My  best  endeavor,  to  perform  the  points 

The  trust  enjoined  ;  and  I  believe  they  all 

Had  been  fulfilled,  when  I  had  brought  you  here, 

And  seen  you  safely  home  to  Merton  Hall." 

"  Ah,  yes,  we  never  could  agree  in  what 

Those  points  consist ;  and  therefore  'twas  I  asked 

You  to  come  hither,  that  we  might  decide 

How  far  they  reach,  and  how  much  they  include. 

You  think  them  ended  by  your  escort  home  : 

You  think  protection,  guard,  and  watchfulness 

No  longer  needed  for  me,  now  I  am 

Returned  to  safety  and  to  Merton  Hall  ? 

You  think  your  care  for  me  may  cease  now  I 

Have  once  resumed  my  station  and  my  rank 

As  Lady  of  the  Manor  —  mistress  of  this  place  ? " 


54  THE     TRUST. 

There  was  a  break  in  her  sweet  voice  as  she 
Pronounced  the  words  "  your  care  for  me,"  and  that 
Old  playful  title  used  between  us  in 
Our  desert  life  ;  but  with  recovered  tone 
Of  steadiness,  she  hurried  on  :     "  You  think 
Your  task  concluded,  and  my  uncle's  charge 
Completed  now  ?     Perchance  it  is,  as  you 
Regard  the  trust  and  all  the  claims  it  gives 
Me  on  your  guardianship.     But  may  not  I 
Perceive  some  claims  yet  unfulfilled  ?     May  I 
Not  feel  I  may  advance  my  claim  to  show 
The  grateful  sense  I  have,  and  ever  shall 
Retain,  of  your  devoted,  manly  care  : 
Heroic  bravery  in  saving  me, 
Unceasing  labor,  forethought,  fortitude 
For  me,  unfailing  firmness,  tolerance 
Throughout,  when  whims  of  woman  mood  must  oft 
Have  sorely  tried  your  patience  ?     Do  you  think 
That  I  possess  no  claims  ?     My  uncle's  charge 
And  trust,  I  know,  must  sure  include  the  claim 
His  Clarice  has  to  show  her  gratitude." 
"  Your  gratitude  is  not  what  I  would  have  ; 
If  any  guerdon  be  my  due,  there  is 


THE     TRUST. 


55 


One,  higher  far,  I  dare  not,  may  not  ask." 
My  heart  gave  a  wild  bound  when  I  perceived 
She  shrank  not  at  my  words :  I  took  her  hand, 
And  held  it  in  my  own  with  firm  close  grasp  :. 
"I  never  will  ask  this,  if  you  forbid." 
The  dove  had  flown  away  ;  but  the  soft  eyes 
Of  Clarice  still  were  downward  bent,  as  she, 
In  gentle  whispered  tone,  said :  — 

"Will  you  tell 

Me  what  it  was  that  made  you  treat  those  flowers 
So  strangely  in  the  lane  last  night  ?  "     "  You  ask 
The  truth  ?  "     "  I  ask  the  truth."     "  In  one  word  lies 
The  truth  ;  but  will  you  bear  to  hear  it  ?     Will 
You  not  resent  the  truth  ?  "     "I  ask  it,"  she 
Repeated,  quietly.     "  Then  know  'twas  love, 
Love  long  ago  conceived,  love  ever  since 
Concealed  with  careful  painfullest  attempt 
To  bury  it  within  the  depths  of  my 
Own  heart.     'Twas  love  that  took  me  to  the  lane 
In  boyhood,  that  I  might  have  chance  to  see 
Fair  Clarice  riding  by  ;  'twas  love  that  made 
My  rapture  when  I  saved  her  from  the  sea ; 
'Twas  love  that  made  my  torture  when  I  dared 


S6  THE    TRUST. 

Not  let  her  see  my  passion  in  our  home 

Of  desert  life,  lest  she  might  grow  to  care 

For  me,  and  even  learn  (oh,  mingled  bliss 

And  anguish  ! )  to  return  my  faithful  love, 

When  no  all-hallowed  rite  of  sacred  tie 

Could  there  be  ours  :  'twas  love  and  burning  wish 

To  see  her,  if  but  once  again,  that  brought 

Me  to  the  lane  last  night,  and  made  me  press 

The  violets  with  fervor  passionate, 

In  thought  of  her  and  our  sweet  desert  life." 

"  How  could  I  guess  'twas  love  ?  "  she  softly  said  ; 

"Your  manner  was  so  strange,  so  grave,  reserved, 

Constrained,  so  almost  —  as  it  seemed  to  me  — 

Averse."     "  For  your  sake  it  was  so  ;  for  yours. 

All  guardless,  innocent,  protectionless, 

As  you  were  then,  how  could  I  be  but  thus, 

If  I  would  not  betray  my  charge,  my  trust  ? " 

"  And  now  ? "  she  asked,  with  frank,  bewitching  smile ; 

"  Well,  now,  you  are  Miss  Merton  of  the  Hall, 

While  I  am  only  "  —     "  Noblest,  purest,  best, 

And  truest-hearted  man  !  "  she  warmly  said, 

With  eyes  that  sparkled  through  bright  jewel  tears ; 

"  The  sea-bruised  girl  cast  at  your  very  feet 


THE     TRUST. 


57 


By  tossing  waves  you  took  up  tenderly, 

You  treated  with  all  delicate  respect 

For  womanhood,  you  cherished,  treasured  her,  — 

What  should  she  be  but  yours  ? "     I  clasped  her  to 

My  heart :  she  was  my  own  by  her  free  gift : 

My  TRUST  was  trusted  to  me  evermore. 


THE    REMITTANCE. 


THE    REMITTANCE. 


"  A  good  woman  is  worth  gold." 

YOUNG  Bernard  Thorpe  and  Richard  Middleton 

Were  friends,  fast  friends,  from  time  when  they  were 

chums 

At  school.     A  lively,  sanguine,  clever  youth 
Was  Richard ;  while  his  friend  was  earnest  and 
Industrious,  content  to  win  by  slow 
Degrees.     Dick  Middleton  was  rather  for 
An  enterprise  of  dash  and  sudden  gain ; 
While  Bernard  Thorpe  preferred  a  steady  rise, 
By  diligence  and  perseverance  earned. 
Before  they  were  of  age  they  both  were  launched 
In  life,  pursuing  each  the  course  was  best 
Adapted  to  his  character ;  and  ere 
Some  years  were  passed,  they  both  were  on  the  way 
To  make  large  fortunes.     Richard  Middleton 
Went  early  out  to  India  :  Bernard  had 


62  THE    REMITTANCE. 

His  office-desk  in  London,  where  he  worked 

With  assiduity  and  energy. 

They  both  were  merchants  :  but  the  ventures  of 

The  one  were  made  in  the  flush  Orient ; 

The  traffic  of  the  other  chiefly  lay 

In  the  West  Indies,  where  plantations  large, 

With  luscious  rums  and  sugars  brought  in  cash. 

Both  were  employed  in  making  money  ;  one, 

Abroad,  at  times  acquiring  sudden  sums 

Of  large  amount ;  the  other,  slow  and  sure, 

Amassing  solid  wealth.     Dick  Middleton 

Had  married  at  eighteen,  and  taken  his 

Young  wife  to  India  with  him  when  he  went : 

But -Bernard  Thorpe  remained  a  bachelor. 

His  residence  was  good,  substantial ;  one 

Of  those  old  roomy  gloomy  mansions  in 

The  neighborhood  of  Bedford  Square,  which  once 

Found  favor  with  rich  city  men  ;  warm,  like 

Themselves,  'tis  true,  but  wholly  ugly  and 

Unstylish,  unattractive,  void  of  grace 

Or  cheerfulness.     In  this  dull  dwelling  he 

Contented  lived,  his  thoughts  absorbed  in  gain,  — 

Not  sordid  gain,  but  gain  that  should  exalt 

Him  to  the  style  of  merchant-prince,  the  rank 


THE    REMITTANCE.  63 

Sir  Thomas  Gresham  held  with  such  renown. 
Respectable  in  all,  he  had  a  most 
Respectable  old  housekeeper,  who  once 
Had  been  his  mother's,  and  who  knew  him  from 
A  boy.     She  almost  stood  him  in  the  place 
Of  mother  now,  so  motherly  and  good 
Was  Mistress  Wilson  in  her  care  of  her 
Young  master. 

By  the  Indian  mail  one  year 
A  letter  came  to  Bernard  Thorpe  that  gave 
Him  much  delight.     It  told  him  that  he  might 
Expect  his  old  school  friend,  Dick  Middleton, 
In  England  shortly ;  said  the  writer  knew 
That  Bernard  Thorpe  would  gladly  hear  of  his 
Return,  and  welcome  him  to  English  ground 
Again  ;  "  although  (so  ran  the  letter)  "  I 
Am  only  coming  on  a  visit,  and 
Shall  soon  go  back  to  India,  where  a  man 
May  make  a  heap  of  guineas  in  a  day. 
There,  there's  the  place  for  minting  money,  my 
Dear  friend :  I  almost  wish  the  East  and  not 
The  West  had  been  your  chosen  mart,  old  boy. 
But  I  have  something  now  in  view  that  will, 
Or  I  am  very  much  mistaken,  prove 


64  THE    REMITTANCE. 

A  field  between  them  —  that's  neither  here 

Nor  there  (I  don't  intend  a  pun)  —  which  must 

Bring  in  enormous  profits,  and  turn  out 

A  perfect  El  Dorado,  —  truer  far 

Than  that  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  went  to  find. 

But  more  of  this,  friend,  when  we  meet ;  which  will 

Be  soon  I  hope.     Yours,  ever  faithfully, 

DlCK    MiDDLETON." 

When  he  arrived,  his  friend 
Insisted  he  should  come  to  him  at  once  :  — 
"  You  must,  Dick,"  Bernard  said  ;  "  you  must  indulge 
My  wish,  and  make  my  house  your  home  while  you 
Remain  in  England."     "  But  my  stay  will  be 
But  short,"  said  Richard,  "  and  it's  scarce  worth  while 
To  put  you  out  for  such  a  little  time." 
"  The  less  time  you  can  give,  the  more  I  need 
To  make  the  most  of  it.     Come,  Dick,  you  must 
Consent."     "  Oh,  if  I  must,  I  must,"  said  Dick  ; 
"  But  mistress  What's-her-name,  your  housekeeper, 
Will  wish  me  farther,  with  my  truant  ways 
Of  darting  in  and  out,  at  all  odd  hours ; 
Of  keeping  dinner  waiting ;  being  out 
When  I  should  be  at  home,  and  being  in 
When  she'd  be  glad  to  have  my  room  instead 


THE    REMITTANCE.  65 

Of  company,  as  the  saying  goes. 
I  know  I  am  unpunctual,  terribly 
Irregular,  and  unmethodical : 
My  wife  has  often  told  me  so  j  though  she 
Is  gentlest  of  the  gentle,  and  will  bear 
From  me,  ay,  almost  any  thing.     But  how 
Can  I  expect  your  housekeeper  to  bear  "  — 
"  My  housekeeper  will  bear  whatever  I 
Think  fit  and  pleasant/'  answered  Bernard  with 
A  smile  j  "  and  your  consenting  to  my  wish 
Is  fit  and  pleasant  both :  so  it's  agreed." 
The  friends  enjoyed  their  time  together  much. 
While  Richard  Middleton  was  staying  there 
He  entered  headlong  into  the  grand  scheme 
That  he  had  mentioned  in  his  letter  to 
His  friend ;  though  Bernard  Thorpe  did  all  he  could 
To  try  dissuade  the  eager  Richard  from 
A  too  rash  entrance  into  this  vast  field 
Of  speculation,  that  presented  such 
Alluring  prospect  and  large  promise  of 
Returns.     "  An  interest  of  cent-per-cent 
Dimensions  always  serves  to  startle  me 
From  joining  in  a  project,"  Bernard  said ; 
"  Lest  it  should  prove  a  bubble  some  fine  day, 
E 


66  THE    REMITTANCE. 

And  burst,  with  empty  nothingness  for  the 

Investors,  shareholders,  and  all  concerned. 

No,  no ;  I  always  rather  trust  to  small, 

Sure  gains,  than  to  a  dazzling  possible 

Result  of  magnitude  immense  ;  for  large 

Percentage  certainly  implies  large  risk." 

"Ay,  Bernard,"  smiled  his  friend ;  "you  always  were, 

You  know,  a  something  of  a  plodder ;  liked 

To  take  the  cautious,  prudent  course :  while  I 

Loved  rapid  pace,  excitement ;  all  the  rush, 

The  speed,  the  impetus,  the  triumph  of 

A  swift  arrival  at  my  goal,  to  find 

Myself  the  prize-crowned  conqueror."     "Beware 

Lest  you  the  racer's  fate  experience, 

Of  check,  impediment,  or  being  thrown," 

Returned  the  other  in  a  graver  tone ; 

"  Consider,  Dick,  ere  yet  it  be  too  late." 

"  It  is  too  late  already,  if  you  call 

(  Too  late '  my  being  early  to  secure 

A  thumping  slice  of  this  good  thing,  a  lot, 

A  lion's  share  of  shares,  for  next  to  naught, 

For  a  mere  song,  in  fact ;  they  let  me  have 

This  first  advantage,  since  'twas  I  that  first 

Originated  and  promoted  the 


THE    REMITTANCE.  6/ 

Affair.     It  really,  is  a  splendid  thing. 

Moreover  they  have  made  me  treasurer, 

And  one  of  the  directors.     I  assure 

You,  Bernard,  it  is  sure  to  do ;  it  must, 

It  shall,  it  will ;  I'm  certain  that  it  will. 

I'll  give  you  as  a  toast  to-day  —  and  drink 

It  you  will  not  refuse,  I  know  — '  Success 

To  Richard  Middleton's  new  scheme,  and  may 

It  bring  him  all  the  luck  and  cash  that  he 

Expects  ! '     And  that  is  not  a  little,  I 

Can  tell  you,  Master  Bernard,  dear  old  boy ! " 

In  higher  spirits  went  on  Dick,  until 

One  day  he  came  home  late  to  dinner,  and 

Went  up  at  once  to  his  own  room  to  dress. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  elapsed  —  and  then 

Another  —  and  again  a  third  ;  but  still 

No  Dick  appeared.     Then  Bernard  rang  the  bell, 

And  asked  if  Mr.  Middleton  had  yet 

Come  in.     "  Dear,  yes,  sir,  to  be  sure, 

A  good  half -hour  ago,"  was  the  reply ; 

"  But  p'rhaps  he  don't  feel  quite  the  thing,"  said  Price, 

The  old  gray-headed  butler,  in  a  tone 

Of  half  mysterious,  half  fatherly 

Concern  ;  for  Dick's  good-natured  lively  ways 


68  THE    REMITTANCE. 

And  lavish  pay  for  service  done  had  gained 

Him  favor  in  the  household.     Price's  tone 

Drew  notice  from  his  master.     "  What  is  it 

You  mean  ? "  said  he  ;  "  is  Mr.  Middleton 

Not  well  ? "     "  I  don't  exactly  know,  sir ;  but 

He  seemed  to  me  to  look  quite  queer,  —  so  white, 

So  drawn,  so  strange,  somehow."     "I'll  go  and" see 

To  it  myself,"  said  Bernard  ;  and  he  ran 

Upstairs  to  see  his  friend.     On  opening 

The  door  he  saw  Dick  sitting  with  his  face 

Deep  buried  in  his  hands ;  complete  despair 

Marked  sunken  head,  distracted  attitude ; 

While  on  the  table  lay  an  open  case 

Of  travelling  pistols,  close  within  his  reach. 

His  friend  advanced  with  noiseless  step  and  laid 

A  gentle  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of 

The  stricken  man  :  "  Dick,  what  is  this  ?  "  he  said 

With  voice  as  tender  as  a  woman's  ;  "  tell 

Me  what  has  chanced. "     "A  blow,  a  heavy  blow ; 

It  struck  me  on  the  head,  I  fancy ;  it 

Affects  my  head,  I  think ;  but  it  will 

Pass  away ;  'tis  nothing,  I  dare  say ;  leave 

Me,  Bernard ;  I  will  try  to  get  some  sleep ; 

I  only  feel  a  little  stunned  :  the  blow 


THE    REMITTANCE.  69 

Was  hard."     He  tried  to  turn  it  off,  and  make 

It  seem  he'd  met  with  some  street  accident. 

"  Dick,  tell  me  truly  what  has  happened,"  said 

His  friend.     Then  Dick  burst  forth  in  torrent  wild 

Of  words  :  "  Impending  ruin,  utter  loss, 

Destruction  !     Worse  than  money  loss,  the  loss 

Of  honor,  credit,  reputation  ;  worse, 

Far  worse !     I  ne'er  can  raise  my  head  again  ! 

Best  die  at  once,  and  end  it  all !  "     His  eyes 

An  instant  turned  to  where  the  pistols  lay 

Upon  the  table.     Bernard  closed  the  case, 

And  put  it  in  his  pocket.     "  Dick,"  he  said, 

"  Be  calm,  be  rational ;  come,  be  yourself, 

Your  bright  and  hopeful  self ;  you  always  were 

A  hopeful  chap,  you  know  —  too  sanguine,  p'rhaps  — 

But  now  'tis  best  encourage  hope.     Come,  let's 

Consider  how  all  this  may  be  repaired, 

Averted  ;  think  of  ways  and  means  ;  devise 

Some  mode  of  putting  off  the  evil  day. 

This  scheme,  of  course,  has  failed ;  I  feared  it  would ; 

It  is  so,  is  it  not  ? "     "  It  is,"  said  Dick  ; 

"  Dolt,  blockhead  that  I  was,  to  be  so  rash, 

So  credulous  !  "     "  Is  there  no  help  ?     No  chance 

Of  staving  off  the  crash  ? "  asked  Bernard.     "  None, 


70  THE    REMITTANCE. 

t  None,  none  !  "  said  Dick.     "  Unless  I  find  the  means 
To  raise  before  to-morrow  noon  a  sum 
Of  fabulous  amount,  I'm  beggared,  and  — 
Still  deeper  misery  —  dishonored,  lost, 
Undone ;  for  never  after  can  I  hope 
To  rise,  recover  ground,  make  one  more  strong 
Attempt  to  try  my  fate  with  fortune,  and 
Retrieve  the  past  by  ardent,  strenuous 
Endeavor.     Bankrupt,  creditless,"no  chance 
Remains  for  me  in  life ;  and  life  I  care 
Not  for,  I  will  not  have."     "  Dick,  promise  me 
That  you  will  be  a  man,  commit  no  act 
Of  folly,  —  worse  than  folly,  wickedness, — 
Do  nothing  desperate,  and  I  in  turn 
Will  promise  to  think  over  .this,  and  see 
What  can  be  done  before  to-morrow  noon. 
And  now  cheer  up,  my  dear  old  boy,  and  come 
With  me  downstairs  :  we'll  have  a  glass  of  good 
Old  Burgundy  shall  warm  our  hearts,  and  may  — 
Who  knows  ?  —  inspire  me  with  the  ef test  way 
To  get  you  out  of  difficulty,  and 
To  set  you  on  your  legs  of  mercantile 
Stability  again.     Some  food  and  wine 
Will  do  you  good.     The  dinner  —  no,  I  will 


THE    REMITTANCE.  ji 

Not  call  it  so  —  the  supper  has  been  kept 

By  us  so  long  uneaten,  that  poor  Price, 

And  mistress  cook,  and  mistresa  housekeeper, 

Are  out  of  patience,  sure,  by  this  time."     Thus 

Did  Bernard  rattle  on,  that  Dick  might  not 

Relapse  into  his  moody  thought  and  black 

Despair :  the  two  men  seemed,  as  they  sat  there 

At  table,  to  have  changed  respectively 

Their  characters  :  Dick,  downcast,  sad,  and  mute, 

While  Bernard  was  all  brightness,  passed  the  wine, 

And  strove  to  keep  his  friend  in  spirits,  cheer,  and  hope. 

When  finished  was  the  meal,  and  servants  were 

Withdrawn,  the  two  fell  into  graver  talk, 

And  Bernard  made  himself  acquainted  with 

The  full  particulars  of  Richard's  case, 

The  master  of  its  every  detailed  fact. 

Then  bidding  Dick  good  night,  and  charging  him 

To  keep  good  heart,  his  friend  retired  to  bed. 

But  not  to  sleep  :  he  lay  awake  in  thought 

And  earnest  question  with  himself,  how  he 

Might  rescue  Richard,  yet  escape  without 

The  total  wreck  of  his  own  fortunes ;  for 

The  sum  required  was  one  that  almost  would 

Demand  his  all,  and  leave  him  nearly  stripped, 


72  THE    REMITTANCE. 

Comparatively  penniless,  reduced, 
Restricted  to  the  scantiest  of  means 
For  keeping  still  his  honored  calling  as 
A  merchant.     But  at  length  he  firm  made  up 
His  mind :  "  I  cannot  let  old  Dick  be  lost 
For  want  of  my  assistance,  come  what  may ! 
He  saved  my  life  at  school  once,  in  his  own  - 
Impetuous  and  headlong  way,  without 
Regard  to  consequence  or  danger  to 
Himself :  just  as  he  now  is,  he  was  then  ; 
A  thoughtless,  generous  chap,  resolved  to  win 
Whate'er  he  sought  at  one  bold  dash,  be  it 
The  life  of  his  school  chum,  or  be  it  wealth 
And  eminence.     Old  Dick  must  not  be  lost, 
If  any  sacrifice  of  mine  can  save 
Him  now.     It  is  but  going  back  to  where 
I  was,  beginning  life  anew.     I'll  start 
Afresh  with  vigor  and  good  wil-1.     I  am 
Not  thirty  yet :  there's  time  enough  to  make 
My  fortune  still."     Next  day  he  told  his  friend 
Of  what  he  had  resolved  upon.     Dick  made 
Remonstrance ;  said  he  could  not  think  of  such 
A  noble  sacrifice  on  Bernard's  part ; 
•  That  he  could  not  accept  a  loan  so  large, 


THE    REMITTANCE. 

So  ruinously  large  ;  but  when  he  found 
That  Bernard  still  persisted  and  remained 
Unmoved,  Dick  wavered,  then  began  to  yield, 
And  lent  an  ear  to  Bernard's  arguments  :  — 
"  Remember  I,  a  bachelor,"  said  Thorpe, 
"  Can  better  far  afford  to  be  a  poor 
And  struggling  man  than  you,  a  husband  and 
A  father,  can  afford  to  be  without 
A  shilling.     Think  a  moment  of  your  wife 
And  child,  and  then  I  know  you'll  see  the  force 
Of  what  I  say."     "  Besides,"  said  Dick,  "  although 
This  heavy  loan  will  leave  you  straitened  for 
A  period,  'twill  be  but  for  a  time  ; 
Since  once  I  am  again  in  India,  my 
Resources  there  will  soon  enable  me 
To  send  you  a  remittance  ;  such  a  sum 
As  amply  will  suffice  to  set  you  well 
Afloat  again,  till  I  can  forward  more 
And  more,  until  the  whole  be  gratefully 
Repaid."     And  thus  it  was  agreed.     By  noon 
Next  day  the  fate  of  Richard  Middleton 
Was  saved,  the  fate  of  Bernard  Thorpe  was  sealed : 
The  one  was  free,  the  other  bound,  —  bound  hand 
foot  to  recommencement  of  his  first 
4 


73 


74 


THE    REMITTANCE. 


Dull  drudgery  in  early  days,  when  he, 

As  office-clerk,  began  the  mercantile 

Career,  day-dreaming  of  Dick  Whittington, 

His  humble  origin  and  glorious  end. 

The  time  arrived  for  parting,  and  the  two 

Took  leave.     "  God  bless  you,  dear  old  boy  !  good-by ! 

When  once  I'm  over  there,  I'll  forward  the 

Remittance,  never  fear !     Expect  it  soon, 

Dear  Bernard,  generous  friend  !  "     And  Dick  set  sail. 

Thus  bare,  thus  cramped  and  maimed, 
A  crippled  man  in  capital  and  funds, 
Stout-hearted  Bernard  set  to  work  to  lay 
Again  the  first  stone  of  his  edifice, 
His  building  up  a  fortune  regal  in 
Its  vastness.     He  began  by  practising 
The  strictest  prudence  and  economy, 
Retrenched  his  personal  expenses  to 
The  merest  need ;  wore  plainest  garments ;  took 
No  recreation  save  his  books  and  walks ; 
Reduced  his  household  ;  lived  on  simplest  fare  ; 
But  dwelt  in  the  same  roomy  gloomy  house, 
For  three  good  reasons  ;  one,  because  he  there 
Lived  free  of  rent,  since  he  had  bought  it  for 
His  own  when  he  was  rich ;  the  second  was, 


THE    REMITTANCE.  75 

Because  it  looked  substantial,  solid,  like 

The  dwelling  of  a  well-established  man ; 

The  third,  because  to  change  it  for  a  less 

Expensive  one  would  challenge  notice  and 

Bespeak  reverse  and  smaller  means  :  for  he 

Endeavored  always  to  preserve  the  look 

Of  being  still  as  able  as  before 

To  meet  all  exigencies  and  sustain 

The  business  in  previous  magnitude. 

Its  old  repute,  its  long-established  name, 

Its  steady,  firmly  grounded  credit,  and 

Repute  for  punctuality  and  prompt 

Fulfilment  of  trade  orders,  constant  in 

Its  industry,  activity  for  years, 

While  Bernard's  father  was  alive,  and  when 

The  son  succeeded  him  to  be  its  head, 

Gave  Bernard  power  to  stem  the  tide 

Of  difficulty  threatening  to  whelm 

Him  in  its  flood :  and  still  he  toiled  and  toiled, 

And  waited,  waited,  ever  patiently, 

In  expectation  of  the  promised  large 

Remittance  coming  from  abroad,  that  might 

Redeem  Dick's  solemn  pledge,  as  well  as  shield 

Himself  from  pressing  calls,  and  urgent  need 


76  THE    REMITTANCE. 

To  be  prepared  against  ensuing  chance 
Or  imminent  demand. 

But  time  went  on  ; 

And  still  no  news  from  India,  none  from  Dick. 
The  lines  increased  on  Bernard's  knitted  brow ; 
The  crows  of  care  began  to  set  their  feet 
With  deep  indent  about  his  wistful  eyes ; 
His  cheek  grew  haggard,  wan,  with  that  sad  look 
Is  seen  in  faces  early  aged  and  worn 
By  carking,  pondering  anxiety ; 
By  absent-minded  longing  for  some  one 
Intensely  wished  occurrence  ;  by  a  dull 
Persistent  dwelling  on  a  single  strong 
Desire,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else 
That's  healthful,  cheerful,  hopeful  for  a  man 
To  think  upon.     Yet  Bernard  was  still  young, 
And  hardly  yet  had  reached  the  prime  of  life  ; 
The  more,  then,  was  it  sorrowful  to  mark 
The  signs  of  that  impending  oldness  in 
His  face  and  its  expression,  with  the  bend 
Of  his  brown  head  ere  it  was  gray,  and  stoop 
Of  limbs  that  had  not  shrunk,  but  still  possessed 
The  firmness,  suppleness,  alertness  of 
Their  youth.     He  was  a  personable  man, 


THE    REMITTANCE. 

Of  figure  fine  and  tall,  with  countenance 
Refined,  a  forehead  bland  and  thoughtful,  eyes 
That  glowed  with  generous  fire,  or  softened  with 
Benignity,  and  smile  of  sweetness  most 
Ineffable  :  but  all  these  comely  points 
Were  clouded  by  his  growing  care,  and  gnaw 
Of  ever  biting  keen  solicitude. 

At  last  an  Indian  mail  came  in  that  brought 
The  long  expected  letter,  which  ran  thus  :  — 
"  Dear  Friend,  —  Alas  for  the  remittance  that 
I  promised  and  I  fully  thought  to  send ! 
I've  staked  my  last  and  lost :  I  thought  to  make 
One  final  stroke  of  fortune  would  repay 
You  all,  and  more  than  all :  but  no,  I'm  ruined ; 
Ruined  past  redemption,  past  recall. 
I  send  you  now,  in  lieu  of  the  once  hoped 
Remittance,  all  that  now  is  left  to  me,  — 
My  beggared  orphan  child  ;  for  orphan  soon 
I  feel  she'll  be  :  her  mother  is  no  more  ; 
Myself  am  struck  to  earth,  am  dying  fast : 
This  blow  has  killed  me  with  the  bitter  thought 
Of  my  poor  girl  thus  left,  and  you  unpaid  ; 
I  send  her  to  you,  Bernard,  in  my  last 
Extremity :  a  charge  instead  of  payment : 


77 


78  THE    REMITTANCE. 

And  yet  I  know  you  will  take  care  of  her ; 
For  have  you  not  been  always  good  to  me  ? 
Forbearing  ?     Generous  ?     A  more  than  friend  ? 
Be  kind  to  her,  be  kind  to  my  poor  Grace, 
If  only  for  the  sake  of  bygone  times, 
When  I  was  your  old  school-fellow  and  chum, 

DlCK  MlDDLETON." 

The  girl  arrived :  a  slim 

Slight  girl,  scarce  entered  on  her  teens ;  a  shy 
And  timid  creature,  with  large  eyes  that  shrank 
From  gaze,  yet  seemed  to  fill  her  face,  so  out 
They  stood  above  her  pale,  wan,  wasted  cheeks : 
A  girl  forlorn  and  unattractive  she 
Appeared  to  Bernard  Thorpe,  as  he  at  once 
Delivered  her  to  Wilson's  care,  and  gave 
His  housekeeper  the  order  to  attend 
To  all  was  needful  for  Miss  Middleton. 
"  An  unformed  girl,  an  awkward  unformed  girl ; " 
Was  Bernard's  muttered  thought,  as  she  withdrew ; 
"  '  A  charge  instead  of  payment,'  were  the  words 
Her  father  used,  and  true  enough  they  are : 
A  charge  indeed  !  an  onerous  charge  !  a  charge 
The  more  for  me  to  bear  "beyond  what  I 
Have  had  to  bear :  a  charge  entailing  more 


THE    REMITTANCE. 

Expense  and  outlay  in  the  place  of  the 
Remittance  promised,  my  own  sum  returned, 
Repaid :  that  sum  so  long  expected,  long 
Relied  on,  long  and  ardently  desired ! 
That  sum  which  would  have  helped  to  make  me  all 
I  thought  to  be,  —  a  wealthy  man,  a  man 
Respected  as  a  reigning  potentate 
Among  his  fellow-merchants,  one  who  might 
Have  raised  high  merchanthood'e'en  higher  yet. 
What  now  is  left  me  ?     To  remain  for  years 
A  struggling  man,  an  ever-struggling  man ! 
But,  patience,  Bernard  Thorpe,  be  patient  still ! 
With  patience,  courage,  persevering  work, 
You  yet  may  win  the  goal  youVe  set  your  heart 
Upon.     Till  now  you  have  relied  on  one 
Whose  word  you  took  :  henceforth  rely  on  none 
But  God  and  your  own  self ;  be  brave,  be  calm, 
Be  firm  and  constant  to  your  promised  end !  " 
That  end  he  more  than  ever  held  in  view, 
Pursued,  and  still  unflinchingly  resolved 
To  gain  :  he  labored  at  his  desk  by  night 
As  well  as  day ;  he  spared  nor  toil,  nor  thought, 
Nor  hand,  nor  brain :  all  day  he  spent  in  the 
Small  pent-up  city  office,  hard  at  work ; 


79 


80  THE    REMITTANCE. 

The  evening  he  gave  himself  for  brief 

Enjoyment  of  his  dinner  and  his  glass 

Of  wine ;  but  long  into  the  night  he  wrote, 

And  looked  into  his  ledgers,  cash-accounts, 

His  long  ruled  pages  bound  in  calf,  and  all 

The  rest  of  those  important  "  books  that  are 

No  books,"  according  to  the  author-clerk 

Of  London's  venerable  India-house, 

Dear  Elia,  ever-honored  writer-friend, 

Sweet-hearted,  witty,  good  and  great  Charles  Lamb. 

The  time  allowed  by  Bernard  Thorpe  for  rest, 

Repose  of  mind  as  well  as  hand,  was  when 

Just  once  in  the  whole  four-and-twenty  hours, 

He  saw  the  young  girl,  Grace,  who  had  been  sent 

So  solemnly  to  his  own  guardianship 

And  care.     Her  diffidence,  her  shyness,  her 

Timidity,  would  fain  have  kept  her  from 

What  she  imagined  might  be  taken  as 

Intrusion  ;  but  good  Mistress  Wilson  would 

Not  hear  of  Grace's  dining  anywhere 

But  with  the  master  of  the  house  ;  and  at 

The  proper  dinner-hour  of  set  and  state 

Repast  for  the  chief  meal  of  every  day, 

She  had  her  ready  dressed  and  ready  to 


THE    REMITTANCE.  Si 

Go  down  into  the  dining-room,  against 

The  well-known  knock  was  heard,  that  she  might  there 

Be  seated  to  receive  the  merchant,  when, 

Returning  home,  he  ought  to  find  and  to 

Be  met  with  welcome,  was  the  sage  and  kind 

Assertion  of  the  formal  thoughtful  dame :  — 

"  For  you  must  know,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  that  my 

Young  master  has  lived  much  too  much  alone, 

In  my  opinion  ;  and  he  would  be  all 

The  better  for  a  little  company ; 

Ay,  even  company  of  one  so  mere 

A  girl  as  you  are,  dear,  is  cheerfuller 

Than  dining  by  himself  :  so  you  must  go." 

Grace  always  went ;  was  punctual  to  the  time  ; 

And  sat  beside  the  fire,  its  bright  red  blaze 

Reflected'  dancingly,  and  lighting  up 

With  starry  sparkles  the  small  locket  and 

The  jet  upon. her  mourning  frock  ;  and  so 

Brought  into  fuller,  stronger  contrast  the 

Pale  face  and  large  dark  eyes  that  spoke  in  dumb 

But  plainly  written  characters  the  tale 

Of  early  saddened  girlhood.     There  she  sat 

In  deepest  thought,  -her  loosely  folded  hands 

Across  her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed  dreamily 


82  THE    REMITTANCE. 

Upon  the  coals,  in  which  she  seemed  to  see 
Strange  pictures  of  the  past  old  Indian  life, 
Until  came  Bernard's  knock,  to  wake  her  with 
A  start  from  out  her  musing  trance,  and  bring 
Her  back  to  present  life  with  all  its  yet 
More  strange  surroundings,  as  it  seemed  to  her. 
When  he  came  in,  she  used  to  quick  look  up 
And  see  if  in  his  face  were  aught  amiss, 
Of  coming  change  or  fresh  anxiety ; 
Then  rose,  and  silently  —  as  was  her  wont  — 
Drew  forward  his  arm-chair  a  little,  as 
Presenting  it,  reminding  him  'twas  there 
Beside  the  fire  ;  and  pointed  to  the  rug 
Where  lay  his  slippers,  warming,  ready  to 
Put  on  at  once,  ere  he  went  up  to  dress 
More  leisurely  before  they  dined.     All  these 
Attentions,  paid  with  utmost  quietness, 
As  quietly  were  taken  by  the  man 
To  whom  they  were  so  mutely  offered  ;  for 
At  most  times  Bernard  was  so  absent,  so 
Immersed  in  calculations  and  accounts, 
He  rarely  noticed  what  was  passing.     His 
Abstraction  lessened  somewhat  as  the  meal 
Went  on  ;  and  by  the  time  dessert  was  placed 


THE    REMITTANCE.  83 

Upon  the  table,  he  became  more  free 

Of  speech,  more  genial,  more  inclined  to  chat 

With  Grace.     She  had  been  in  the  house  some  weeks, 

When  once  he  said,  while  eating  walnuts  peeled 

By  her,  and  put  upon  his  plate  with  salt, 

In  silence  :  "  I've  remembered,  child,  that  I 

Ought  long  ere  this  to  have  bethought  me  of 

A  school ;  for  I  suppose  you  should  be  s?nt 

To  school."     He  gave  a  sort  of  little  sigh, 

As  he  said  this,  in  thinking  of  the  time 

That  he  must  give  to  choosing  some  good  school ; 

Some  school  well  recommended,  and  well  known 

To  be  a  good  one.     "  If  you  please,"  said  Grace, 

With  her  large  eyes  raised  suddenly  to  his, 

"  I  would  much  rather  not  be  sent  to  school ; 

My  mother  used  to  tell  me  that  she  did 

Not  like  the  thought  of  school  for  me.     But  if 

I'm  troublesome  or  wrong  in  saying  I 

Object,  or  telling  you  my  mother's  strong 

Objection,  I  will  go  to  school."     "  No  need, 

No  need,"  said  Bernard  ;  "  we  can  think  of  some 

Still  better  mode  of  education  ;  for 

Of  course  you  must  be  educated,  child,  — 

Now,  mustn't  you  ?  "     "  My  mother  taught  me  much," 


84  THE    REMITTANCE. 

Said  Grace  ;  "  from  quite  a  little,  little  girl 
She  used  to  teach  me  all  she  knew,  and  take 
Great  pains  with  me  ;  but  I  don't  know ;  perhaps 
I  ought  to  learn  some  more.     Do  you  think  so  ?  " 
"  I  hardly  know,  indeed,  myself,"  said  he, 
With  puzzled  look  ;  "  I  know  so  little  what 
Is  reckoned  right  for  a  young  lady's  due 
And  proper  training ;  but,  if  not  a  school, 
A  governess  might  be  engaged  for  you, 
Or  teachers,  masters,  could  come  here  at  hours 
Appointed,  certain  days."     "  A  governess 
Would  want  a  salary,  and  cost  a  great, 
Great  deal ;  while  Mistress  Wilson  takes  good  care 
Of  me,  and  teaches  me  to  sew  and  stitch, 
And  lets  me  watch  her  make  preserves  and  jams, 
With  many  other  things  it's  well  to  learn  ; 
And  then  there  are  the  books  upon  the  shelves 
In  your  small  study,  that  she  said  I  might 
Go  into  while  you  are  away  —  you  do 
Not  mind  it,  do  you  ?  —  and  from  these  I  pick 
Out  several  I  like  to  look  at  and 

To  read."     "  You  do  ?  "  asked  Bernard,  much  amused 
At  Grace's  quaintly  stated  plan  for  her 
Home  schooling ;  "  but  I  should  have  thought  those 
books 


THE    REMITTANCE.  8$ 

You  speak  of  much  too  dry  to  please  the  taste 
Of  a  young  girl."     "  In  one  of  them,"  said  Grace, 
"  I  found  a  number  of  most  curious  prints, 
That  entertain  me  always  ;  queer  monkeys, 
Odd  birds,  strange  places,  heads  of  ancient  men 
And  women,  monstrous  fish  and  insects,  all 
Of  which  I  want  to  know  about,  and  so 
I  read  the  pages  near,  and  like  that  book 
Beyond  the  rest."     "  The  Cyclopedia,  eh  ?  " 
Said  Bernard,  with  a  smile  that  lighted  up 
His  face,  and  long  had  been  a  stranger  there ; 

"  Well,  well,  your  choice  is  rather  different 
From  what  the  usual  run  of  damsels  of 
Your  age  prefer  ;  but  you  are  not  among 
*  The  usual  run  '  of  girls  ;  and  you  know  best, 
Of  course,  what  interests  and  pleases  you." 
"  Not  only  pleases  me,  but  teaches  me," 
Said  Grace,  a  little  timidly,  afraid 
That  Bernard's  -manner  might  imply  he  thought 
She  cared  for  nothing  more  than  pastime  in 
Her  looking  through  his  books  ;  "  I  learn  while  I 
Am  turning  over  all  those  leaves,  and  if 
I  do  not  learn  enough,  you  can  engage  — 
But  later  on  —  some  masters  for  me,  if 


86  THE    REMITTANCE. 

You  please."     "  Ay,  very  well,"  said  Bernard,  much 

Relieved  to  find  the  matter  settled  for 

The  present,  turning  as  he  spoke  to  where 

A  writing-table  always  stood,  that  he 

Might  go  at  once  to  work  when  food  and  rest 

Were  taken.     Grace  was  also  glad  to  have 

Reprieve  :  her  haunting  dread  of  adding  to 

The  merchant's  outlay,  when  she  knew  his  means 

Had  been  so  straitened  by  that  heavy  loan, 

Of  being  one  more  burden  among  those 

Her  father's  act  had  laid  on  him  to  bear, 

Inspired  her  with  a  constant  wish  to  save 

Him  all  expense,  to  spare  in  all  she  could, 

To  try  and  aid  him  by  economy, 

By  active,  helpful,  frugal  ways  at  home, 

And  by  avoiding  for  herself  whate'er 

Cost  money.     Grace  was  thoughtful  much  beyond 

Her  years  :  her  mother  delicate,  she  had 

Been  nurse,  sick-cook,  and  comforter  to  her ; 

Her  father,  thoughtless,  lavish,  careless,  but 

Most  fond  of  wife  and  child,  had  been  of  both 

The  idle  and  the  thought-for  :  thus  it  came 

That,  from  her  earliest  childhood,  Grace  had  been 

Accustomed  by  her  parents  to  be  made 


THE    REMITTANCE.  87 

Their  little  confidant  in  all  their  joys 

And  griefs,  their  pleasures  and  their  pains,  their  brief 

Good  fortune,  and  their  frequent  intervals 

Of  narrowed  income  ;  causing  her  to  have 

Reflection,  patience,  prudence,  foresight,  quick 

Perception,  judgment,  seldom  seen  in  girls 

Of  age  so  tender. 

One  among  the  few 

Small  luxuries  that  Bernard  still  allowed 
Himself  at  table,  after  his  resolve 
To  banish  superfluities,  was  choice 
Though  spare  dessert,  and  strong  black  coffee  formed, 
To  him,  its  chief  enjoyment.     This  he  liked 
Made  carefully,  prepared  with  duest  eye 
To  preservation  of  its  exquisite 
Aroma.     On  a  certain  evening 
He  raised  his  coffee-cup,  and  sipped,  and  sipped, 
With  extra  relish  of  its  grateful  scent 
And  flavor,  till  at  length  he  asked  :  "  Who  made 
This  coffee  ?     Mistress  Wilson,  I  suppose, 
As  usual  ?     Yet  it  seems  to  me  she  has 
Surpassed  herself.     But  was  it  she  ?     I  ought 
To  be  a  judge  of  coffee,  and  I  think 
I  could  be  sure  that  this  was  made  by  some 


88  THE    REMITTANCE. 

New  hand.     Who  was  it,  Susan  ?  "     "  It  was  made 

To-day,  sir,  by  Miss  Middleton,"  said  the 

Neat  waiting-maid  who  served  at  table  now 

In  place  of  Price,  the  butler,  sent  away 

When  Bernard  had  reduced  his  household.     "  I 

Was  sure  I  could  not  be  mistaken  ;  it's 

Delicious  ;  quite  a  different,  and  still 

More  delicate  essential  taste."     He  looked 

At  Grace.     Her  usual  paleness  now  had  changed 

To  scarlet.     "  Mistress  Wilson  let  me  try," 

She  said,  in  answer  to  his  look  ;  "  I  had 

So  often  begged  her  leave  to  make  it  once, 

Because  I  wished  to  see  if  you  would  like 

The  way  I  used  to  make  it  when  I  was 

In  India,  for  my  mother,  who  was  fond 

Of  coffee  ;  and  she  always  liked  it  made 

By  me."     "  I  do  not  wonder ;  so  should  I," 

Said  Bernard,  smilingly.  "  Would  you  ? "  answered  Grace, 

Delightedly.     "  Then  might  I  make  it  for 

You  every  day,  —  at  breakfast  time  as  well 

As  dinner  ? "     "  Certainly ;  but  breakfast  time 

Is  early,  and  requires  you  to  be  up 

At  a  still  earlier  time,  if  you  would  make 

The  coffee  ready  for  my  breakfasting, 


THE    REMITTANCE.  89 

Before  I  leave  this  house  for  office  hours 

And  city  business."     "  I'm  always  up 

A  good  long  while  before  your  breakfast,  and 

I  will  be  sure  to  have  the  coffee  made 

In  time,"  she  said.     And  so  it  was  ;  and  Grace 

Was  there  to  pour  it  out  for  him.     Till  then 

She  had  not  liked  to  join  him  at  that  meal, 

Lest  he,  in  hurry  to  be  off,  should  find 

Her  in  the  way ;  but  ever  after,  she 

Took  courage,  and  both  breakfasted  and  dined 

With  him. 

Not  only  from  the  picture-book, 
That  drew  a  smile  from  Bernard,  did  she  strive 
To  gather  knowledge,  but  with  diligent 
Attention  she  read  through  most  carefully 
The  books  he  had  thought  "  dry  "  for  her,  which  in 
The  study  she  had  found ;  they  were  a  small 
But  well  chosen  collection,  mostly  works 
Of  science,  travel,  and  biography. 
They  aided  her  to  form  her  mind  and  fill 
It  with  a  store  of  information,  good, 
Available,  and  solid ;  useful,  fit 
To  make  her  practical  and  sensible. 
She  was  already  so,  by  nature  and 


O  THE    REMITTANCE. 

By  circumstance  ;  her  course  of  reading  now 

But  tending  to  confirm  her  previous  bent 

Another  source  of  intellectual  aid 

She  had.     There  came  sometimes  at  after  hours 

To  Bernard's  dwelling-house,  on  messages 

Of  urgency,  .a  young  clerk  from  the  house 

Of  business  in  the  City,  who  was  sent 

Because  he  was  a  favorite  of  his, 

A  steady  worker  and  intelligent. 

This  Henry  Frankland  worshipped  Bernard ;  but 

With  certain  awe  and  reverence  inspired 

By  former  patronage  bestowed  upon 

Himself  and  family,  and  by  the  grave 

Reserve,  with  aspect  dignified,  that  were 

The  merchant's,  even  from  his  very  youth. 

When  Henry  Frankland  brought  these  messages 

It  generally  was  when  Bernard  sat 

Enjoying  his  dessert ;  but  even  that 

Gave  way  at  once  to  business  ;  and  he 

Went  straight  to  where  his  writing-table  stood, 

And  wrote  whatever  letter,  answer,  or 

Directions  wanted  sending  back  for  next 

Day's  early  morning  post,  first  pointing  to 

The  dining-table,  saying,  hurriedly 


THE    REMITTANCE.  9I 

But  kindly  :  "  Frankland,  help  yourself  to  wine 

And  fruit,  or  coffee,  while  I  write  this  line." 

The  "line  "  would  often  take  an  hour  or  two 

To  write,  as  detail  after  detail  would 

Suggest  itself  to  Bernard's  mind  for  each 

Minute  and  accurate  instruction  :  thus 

It  came  that  Frankland  stayed,  while  Grace  performed 

The  hospitable  duties,  offering 

The  cates  to  him,  instead  of  letting  him 

Attend  upon  himself ;  and  often  tea 

Was  served  ere  Bernard  had  completed  all 

He  had  to  write.     The  first  time  Grace  poured  out 

A  cup  and  offered  it  to  Frankland,  he, 

In  tone  subdued  that  might  not  interrupt 

The  merchant  as  he  wrote,  said :   "  Shall  I  not 

Take  some  to  Mr.  Thorpe  ?     Will  he  not  take 

Some  tea  ? "    "  No,"  was  Grace's  low  reply ;  "  he 

But  seldom  drinks  it  till  it's  cold,  and  does 

Not  like  to  be  disturbed  when  writing ;  he 

Will  come  himself  for  some,  if  later  on 

He  care  to  have  any ;  'tis  understood 

Between  us  ;  so  I  never  offer  tea 

To  him,  but  let  it  wait  his  pleasure."     And 

Much  low  talk  like  this  was  held  by  Grace 


92  THE    REMITTANCE. 

And  Frankland,  then  and  afterwards  while  he 

Awaited  Bernard's  written  orders,  and 

She  brought  her  needlework,  to  give  her  hands 

Employment  as  she  listened.     For  'twas  he 

That  chiefly  talked  :  habitually  staid 

And  sparing  of  her  speech,  Grace  much  preferred 

Remaining  silent,  when  the  clerk  would  tell 

Her  what  he  thought  might  serve  to  entertain 

The  lonely  quiet  girl  .thus  living  set 

Apart  from  all  society,  from  all 

Communion  and  companionship  with  those 

Of  her  own  age.     Till,  by  degrees,  Grace  learned 

To  look  for  evenings  when  most  probably 

Young  Frankland  might  arrive  with  City-sent 

Despatches  for  the  merchant ;  since  she  then 

Heard  something  of  the  outer  world,  and,  what 

More  interested  her,  some  touches  of 

That  inner  world  wherein  she  dwelt  and  close 

Concentred  all  her  thoughts.     She  heard  from  him 

Of  Bernard's  goodness  to  himself  and  all 

He  dearly  loved,  when  they  in  penury 

Were  steeped,  and,  but  for  what  the  merchant  did 

On  their  behalf,  would  probably  have  sunk 

O'erwhelmed :  she  heard  from  Frankland  of  the  large 


THE    REMITTANCE. 


93 


Benevolence,  the  charity,  the  bland 

Mild  kindliness  that  marked  the  merchant's  mode 

Of  giving  ear  to  sufferers  ;  e'en  when 

He  could  not  give  them  aid  in  money,  from 

His  own  less  ample  means,  he  furnished  them 

With  letters  to  his  wealthier  friends,  and  took 

Best  pains  to  help  them  on  their  way  to  earn 

An  independence  for  themselves.     Besides 

These  narratives,  Grace  gleaned  from  the  young  clerk 

Some  knowledge  that  she  wanted,  for  the  clear 

And  better  comprehension  of  a  branch 

Of  information  she  had  made  her  more 

Especial  care  to  cull  from  those  "  dry  "  books 

She  studied ;  it  was  commerce,  traffic,  trade 

In  mercantile  and  international 

Regard,  she  strove  to  understand ;  and  to 

Become  acquainted  with  their  various 

Requirements,  —  skill  in  book-keeping,  and  in 

Arithmetic,  in  calculations  of 

Percentage,  annual  and  compound  rates 

Of  interest,  in  home  and  foreign  goods, 

In  exports,  imports,  markets,  prices,  and 

The  rest  of  those  essential  points  for  one 

Who  wished  to  be  proficient,  and  might  be 


94 


THE    REMITTANCE. 


Efficient,  as  a  merchant's  helping  hand. 

She  once  heard  Bernard  say  that  his  young  clerk 

Was  versed  in  business  particulars, 

And  first-rate  as  accountant  ;  so  she  asked 

Of  Frankland  help  in  certain  points  that  still 

Perplexed  her,  and  of  which  she  could  not  quite 

Yet  solve  the  mystery  from  what  she  read. 

Sometimes,  when  Grace's  difficulties  of 

Commercial  study  were  adjusted,  the 

Young  clerk  would  turn  to  other  subjects  ;  and, 

As  gradually  more  and  more  at  ease 

Became  this  murmured  talk,  he  would  confide 

To  Grace  some  items  of  his  personal 

Affairs ;  as  where  his  parents  lived,  and  how 

He  had  an  only  sister,  who  with  them 

Made  home  a  paradise  of  peace  and  joy 

And  comfort  to  him  ;  ne'ertheless,  how  he 

Looked  forward,  some  fine  day,  to  make  his  home 

A  still  more  happy  one,  by  bringing  there 

As  wife  a  certain  Lucy  Mildmay,  whom 

He  loved  and  hoped  to  wed,  when  he  should  earn 

Sufficient  income  to  support  them  all. 

Grace  took  great  interest  in  this  the  first 

Love-story  that  her  girlish  life  had  known  ; 


THE    REMITTANCE. 

She  felt  a  pride  in  being  told  so  young 

Its  secret,  and  she  wished  it  all  success 

With  earnestness  and  warmth.     It  made  a  theme 

Of  kindly  social  thought  for  her  amid 

The  solitary  course  her  youth  maintained. 

And  yet,  though  solitary,  it  was  far 

From  dull  to  her.     She  took  delight  in  all 

She  did  ;  and  worked  with  zest  at  each  pursuit 

With  which  she  filled  her  time,  in  hope  to  make 

Her  education  what  it  should  be,  while 

Still  keeping  Bernard  free  from  the  expense 

Of  schooling,  governess,  or  masters.     One 

Expense  there  was  she  could  not  spare  him  from ; 

For  he  himself  insisted  that  she  should 

Have  an  allowance  quarterly,  to  spend 

As  best  she  chose,  for  clothes,  for  trifles,  such 

As  all  young  ladies  need,  he  had  affirmed, 

And  would  not  hear  of  any  other  plan. 

He  told  his  housekeeper  that  Grace  had  showed 

Such  great  discretion,  for  so  young  a  girl, 

In  all  she  said  about  her  learning  from 

The  books  already  in  the  house,  he  felt 

Assured  she  might  be  trusted  to  control 

Her  own  expenditure,  and  thought  it  best 


95 


96  THE    REMITTANCE. 

Young  people  should  be  early  used  to  lay 

Out  money  for  themselves,  and  learn  betimes 

To  regulate  their  income  with  a  true 

And  just  economy.     "  I  think  so  too," 

The  dame  had  answered :  "  and  of  all 

Young  ladies  that  I  ever  saw,  Miss  Grace 

Is,  sure,  the  cleverest  at  making  and 

Arranging  dresses,  keeping  them  so  neat  and  nice, 

So  spick  and  span,  they  look  bran  new, 

Though  now  they're  getting  rather  worn,  it  must 

Be  owned  ;  but  then  they're  still  those  same  black  frocks 

She  brought  with  her  from  India,  —  poor  dear  thing ! 

"  Then  let  her  get  some  others,"  answered  he, 

And  so  the  subject  of  allowance  ceased ; 

For  Grace  deferred  to  Bernard's  wish  in  this 

As  in  all  else.     Her  stipend  once  begun, 

Among  the  first  large  purchases  she  made 

Was  no  less  than  a  cottage-piano,  that 

She  might  keep  up  her  music,  taught  her  by 

Her  mother,  which  she  thought  she  could  make  means 

Of  earning,  if  need  were,  some  day ;  and  so 

She  practised  hard  in  her  own  room ; 

She  also  worked  at  drawing,  sketching,  as 

She  had  much  aptitude  for  these, 


THE    REMITTANCE.  97 

And  fancied  they,  too,  might  be  useful,  if 
She  had  to  earn  ;  for  Grace  was  constant  to 
Her  character,  —  prudent,  provident,  and  wise. 

Two  years  slipped  by,  with  almost  unperceived 
Transition,  since  she  had  been  dwelling  in 
The  merchant's  house  ;  when,  after  dinner,  once, 
As  Bernard  sat  engrossed  with  papers  at 
His  writing-table,  Grace  heard  drop  some  words 
Of  muttered  worry  from  his  lips  :  "  How's  this  ? 
How's  this  ?     To-night  it  seems  as  if  I  could 
Not  reckon.     Pshaw  !  a  simple  sum  like  this  ! 
Let's  see,  let's  see ;  the  interest  upon 
Eleven  hundred  pounds,  at  six  per  cent, 
For  twenty-seven  years,  would  bring,  —  how  much  ? " 
He  looked  up  for  an  instant,  as  in  doubt, 
When  Grace  said  softly,  scarce  above  her  breath  :  — 
"  One  thousand,  seven  hundred,  eighty-two, 
I  think,  sir,  is  it  not  ?  "     A  cannon-shot 
Could  hardly  more  have  startled  Bernard  than 
This  answer  from  a  girl  of  Grace's  age. 
He  looked  at  her  and  laughed  outright,  a  good 
Loud  hearty  laugh,  a  laugh  that  had  not  come 
From  him  for  years.     "Why,  child  !  "  he  said, — 
"  How  long  have  you  been  mistress  of  accounts  ? 
5  G 


98  THE    REMITTANCE. 

How  long  is  it  that  you  can  tell  about 

A  capital  with  interest,  and  such 

Hard-sounding  mercantile  up-reckonings  ? " 

Grace  blushed  bright  crimson,  —  partly  shame  to  be 

Found  out  in  what  she  secretly  had  learned, 

And  partly  with  delight  at  Bernard's  laugh  ; 

For  never  had  she  heard  him  laugh,  —  not  once, 

Since  she  had  known  him :  and  the  consciousness 

Of  how  his  gravity  was  caused  had  oft 

Depressed  her  heart,  which  now  leapt  up  at  sound 

So  new,  so  welcome.     Through  her  blushes  bright 

Her  eyes  were  dancing ;  and  as  Bernard  looked 

At  that  young  face,  so  usually  pale, 

But  now  one  glow  of  color,  vividness, 

And  animation,  wondered  how  he  could 

Have  ever  thought  her  "  unattractive." 

"  You  do  not  answer  me,"  still  laughing,  he 

Continued  :  "  tell  me  how  it  is  that  you 

Have  come  to  be  a  good  accountant  ?     Why 

I  might  engage  you  as  a  clerk,  if  your 

Accomplishment  be  what  it  seems."     "  I  ask 

No  better,"  Grace  replied  ;  "  I'll  be  your  clerk 

At  home,  if  you  will  have  me.     You  can  try 

My  services  ;  and  if  they  please,  they're  at 


THE    REMITTANCE. 


99 


Your  service,  sir."     She  spoke  with  playfulness, 

Inspired  by  pleasure  at  his  laugh.     "  But  yet 

You  have  not  told  me  how  it  is  you  gained 

Your  clerkly  knowledge  ? "  Bernard  said.     "  I  learned 

Much  from  your  books  ;  and  what  I  could  not  quite 

Make  out  from  them,  I  asked  your  clerk  to  tell 

Me,  —  to  explain  more  clearly,  fully.     He 

Had  patience,  and  his  explanations  I 

Could  always  understand."     "  My  clerk  ?     What  do 

You  mean  ?    What  clerk  ? "     "  The  clerk  that  sometimes 

comes 

With  messages  to  you.     I  heard  you  call . 
Him  Frankland,  did  I  not  ?  "     "  Oh,  ay,  of  course, 
Young  Frankland  j  yes,  he  is  an  excellent 
Accountant ;  one  well  able  to  instruct 
You  in  the  rudiments  and  science  of 
Our  noble  mercantile  pursuit :  but  still  "  — 
Here  Bernard  stopped,  and  said  no  more ;  he  turned 
To  look  again  into  his  papers,  while 
Grace  plied  her  needle,  happy  in  the  thought 
Of  Bernard's  pleasant  look  and  hearty  laugh. 
And,  after  that,  he  often  gladly  used 
The  clerkly  knowledge  and  the  clerkly  hand 
Of  Grace,  in  helping  him  to  calculate 


100  THE    REMITTANCE. 

And  write  :  he  found  her  thoroughly  well  versed, 
Most  competent,  and  ever  happiest 
When  she  was  busy  helping  him. 

Thus,  two  years  more  passed  by  unmarked,  until 
One  day  an  illness  came  to  Grace :  'twas  slight 
At  first ;  but  soon  became  much  worse,  and  then 
Proved  fever  ;  fever  that  for  long  kept  her 
A  prisoner  upstairs,  nursed  carefully 
And  tenderly  by  good  kind  motherly 
Old  Mistress  Wilson,  who  from  earliest v 
Had  taken  Grace  to  her  affection,  loved 
Her  like  a  daughter  ;  calling  her  "  My  dear  " 
When  speaking  to  herself,  though  always  spoke 

Of  her  to  Bernard  as  "  Miss  Grace,"  and  to 

\ 
All  others  as  "  Miss  Middleton,"  with  true 

Old-fashioned  properness  of  due  and  right 
Distinction.     Grace's  illness  was  a  time 
Of  grief  to  all,  for  all  had  learned  to  love 
The  gentle  girl,  so  quaintly  self-possessed, 
Yet  modest,  quiet,  mild,  in  all  her  ways : 
But  most  the  merchant  felt  the  time 
While  Grace  was  ill  a  period  of  grief 
And  misery ;  a  want,  a  vacancy, 
A  blank,  a  loss,  seemed  fallen  on  his  life ; 


THE    REMITTANCE.  IOi 

At  breakfast  how  he  missed  th'e"  liglit  qlfi'ck  .step, 

So  noiseless  yet  alert,  that  came  to  bring 

The  coffee  freshly  made  ;  the  sweet  young  face, 

So  cheerful,  placid,  bright,  that  bade  him  a 

"  Good-morning,"  e'en  before  she  spoke,  and  gave 

Him  blithe  "  Good-by  "  when  he  departed  for 

The  city ;  but  when  most  he  missed  her  was 

Returning  home  for  dinner ;  missed  the  rest, 

The  peacefulness,  the  soft  repose  yet  cheer 

Of  Grace's  presence ;  all  the  sympathy, 

The  welcome,  that  her  look,  her  tone,  expressed 

Without  the  need  of  words  to  say  how  much 

His  home-return  delighted  her.     Instead, 

The  news  of,  "Not  much  better,  sir,  to-day,'7 

From  Susan,  with  her  former  briskness  now 

Subdued  to  stillness ;  then  the  silence  of 

The  solitary  meal,  the  sighs  that  oft 

Broke  from  him  as  he  ate,  in  lieu  of  that 

Gay  interchange  of  chat,  which,  since  he  had 

Become  less  absent-minded,  she  less  shy 

And  timid,  passed  between  tKem  while  they  dined. 

At  length,  however,  came  an  evening 
When  Susan  met  him  with  a  brisker  face 
And  voice  :  "  Oh,  please,  sir,  Mistress  Wilson  bade 


102  ',  THE    REMITTANCE. 

Me  give  fier  'du'cy  atid  to' say 'that  if 

You'd  like  to  come  upstairs,  sir,  after  you've 

Had  dinner,  she  believes  it  wouldn't  hurt 

Miss  Middleton  to  see  you,  and  to  have 

A  little  chat  for  half  an  hour,  as  she's 

A  good  deal  better,  sir,  to-day."     He  made 

An  end  of  dinner  very  quickly,  and 

He  ran  upstairs  with  lighter  step  than  had 

Been  his  for  days  and  days.     He  found  Grace  in 

A  large  arm-chair,  propped  up  by  pillows  ;  but 

With  beaming  eyes,  that  shone  like  stars  above 

Her  hectic-flushed  thin  cheek,  as  he  approached. 

The  wavy  chestnut  hair  hung  loosely  down 

Upon  the  muslin  wrapper  that  took  place 

Of  those  plain  sober  grays  she  wore  when  well ; 

Her  arms  fell  languidly  on  either  side, 

And  wasted  hand  —  when  once  it  had  been  held 

Out  greetingly  to  him  • —  dropped  feebly  too. 

The  shock  of  seeing  her  so  changed,  so  weak, 

Held  Bernard  silent,  motionless ;  while  she 

Said  little,  in  the  joy  of  seeing  him. 

"  We're  getting  nicely  on,  sir,  now,"  remarked 

Dame  Wilson,  cheerfully ;  "  we  have  been  ill, 

Ay,  very  ill ;  but  we  are  coming  round, 


THE    REMITTANCE. 


103 


I'm  glad  to  say,  and  hope  soon  to  be  well, 

Quite  well,  and  looking  bonnily  again." 

"  We're  looking  '  bonnily '  already,  as 

It  seems  to  me,"  said  Bernard,  trying  to 

Speak  cheerily  in  turn.     "  These  rosy  cheeks 

Tell  hopefully  of  coming  health,  I  trust ; 

And,  Grace,  you've  grown  quite  tall  in  this  short  time." 

"  Ay,  always  during  fever  we  grow  fast," 

Said  Wilson,  with  sententious  primness  ;  "  tall 

And  slender,  —  just  a  shade  too  slender,  sir, 

Mayhaps,  at  present ;  but  with  feeding  up 

And  care  we  shall  grow  plump,  and  strong,  and  stout, 

All  in  good  time."     "Nay,  ' stout'  we'll  leave  to  you, 

Good  Wilson,"  Bernard  smiling  said.     "  I  meant, 

When  I  said  'stout,'  "  said  Wilson,  laughing  at 

Her  own  full  cheeks  and  double  chin,  "  I  meant, 

Of  course,  robust  and  hearty ;  and  I  hope 

It  won't  be  long  before  Miss  Grace  is  that ; 

For  though  she  always  was  a  slip,  a  mite, 

Yet  wonderfully  healthy,  active  in 

The  house,  she  always  was,  that  must  be  said. 

See  what  a  pretty  place  she's  made  of  her 

Own  sitting-room  ;  it's  all  her  doing,  all 

Her  planning  and  contriving  ;  and  it  cost 


IO4 


THE    REMITTANCE. 


So  little  too,  —  ay,  there's  the  beauty,  —  cost 

A  merest  nothing ;  for  she  worked  at  it 

Herself,  and  made  the  curtains,  carpet,  with 

Her  clever  little  fingers,  bless  her ;  sewed 

Away  as  if  she  got  her  living  by 

Her  needle ;  stitched  the  seams,  the  hems,  as  though 

She  liked  tough  work ;  and  then,  by  way  of  rest, 

Embroidered  all  these  cushions,  soft  low  chairs 

And  footstools  ;  drew  these  pictures  that  are  hung 

Around  the  walls,  and" "  Stay,  you  must  not  thus 

Tell  tales,  nurse,  out  of  school,"  said  laughing  Grace ; 

"  How  you  are  running  on."     "  My  dear,  I  do 

So  just  o'  purpose,  making  talk  for  you 

And  master,  that  my  patient  mayn't  be  made 

To  talk  too  much  herself,  the  first  time  she 

Receives  a  visit."     "  '  Patient,'  nursey  ?     It 

Is  he  that  is  the  i  patient '  now,  I  think, 

If  you  run  on  at  such  a  rate."     "  No  one 

Can  say  that  I  am  given  much  to  talk," 

Said  Wilson  ;  "  goodness  knows,  I  only  talk 

To  keep  you  lively  and  amused,  my  dear, 

When  you  seem  willing  to  enjoy  a  chat 

Sometimes  while  you  are  sewing  at  your  work." 

"  Suppose  I  say  '  Good-night,'  "  said  Bernard  ;  "  if 


THE    REMITTANCE.  lo$ 

Allowed  to  come,  I  must  not  make  my  stay 
Too  long,  lest  nurse  should  scold,  and  tell  me  that 
Our  invalid  exerts  herself  too  much. 
If  I  behave  with  due  discretion  now, 
I  may,  I  hope,  be  promised  I  shall  come 
To-morrow.  Good-night,  Grace !  God  bless  you,  Grace! " 
As  Bernard  went  downstairs  he  thought  of  his 
Last  word.     He  had  repeated  "  Grace  "  instead 
Of  saying  to  her  "  child,"  as  formerly  : 
But  now  he  felt  he  could  not  call  her  "  child ; " 
He  felt,  while  he  was  with  her,  that  she  had 
Become  no  longer  like  a  child,  a  girl, 
A  little  creature  sent  to  him  for  home, 
Protection,  care,  and  guidance  ;  but  a  young 
And  beautiful  and  sentient  being,  with 
A  nature  righteous,  spirit  wise  and  good, 
Well  able  to  conduct  itself  by  pure 
Instinctive  innocence  of  impulse  and 
Perception  :  no,  —  no  child  ;  but  a  young  girl 
Irradiated,  hallowed,  by  the  bloom 
Of  early  womanhood  that  touched  her  with 
A  saint-like  glory,  as  she  lay  back  there, 
So  smiling,  and  so  gentle,  and  so  faint,  — 
More  helpless  than  before,  and  yet  more  clad 
5* 


106  THE    REMITTANCE. 

In  spiritual  strength,  exalted,  strong 
To  help  herself  and  others  throughout  life, 
If  life  were  granted  her.     As  Bernard's  thought 
Arrived  at  this  last  clause,  he  inwardly 
Ejaculated  :  "  God  of  mercy !  had 
She  died,  had  she  been  taken  from  me,  what 
Would  life  have  now  become  to  me  ?     A  void, 
A  weary,  worthless  void."     He  shuddered,  turned 
From  e'en  the  shadow  of  that  possible, 
And  drew  his  chair  beside  the  fire  that  he 
k  Might  dwell  with  thankfulness  upon  the  blest 
Relief  of  knowing  she  was  spared  to  him  ; 
And  then  in  mental  fond  review  he  passed 
Successively  through  all  that  Grace  had  been 
To  him ;  her  quiet,  unobtrusive  help, 
Her  pretty  thoughtful,  active,  silent  ways, 
Her  never-failing  punctuality, 
Her  constant  care,  devotion,  watchfulness 
For  all  his  likings,  comforts,  and  pursuits : 
No  mother  that  he  lost,  no  sister  that 
He  might  have  had,  no  chosen  woman  whom 
He  might  have  made  his  wife,  could  better  have 
Divined  his  every  wish,  or  studied  to 
Fulfil  them  pleasantly  and  welcomely. 


THE    REMITTANCE.  JQ/ 

A  something  in  this  "  might  have  been  "  there  was 
That  made  the  merchant  start,  as  stung  by  what 
Had  crept  about  his  heart  while  musing  thus. 
He  rose  abruptly,  crushed  the  creeping  thing, 
And  turned  to  write  till  long  past  midnight,  when 
All  else  but  he  had  gone  to  rest. 

Next  day, 

No  sooner  dinner  done,  than  Bernard  sent 
Upstairs  to  know  if  he  might  come  and  pay 
The  invalid  another  visit,  with 
Much  sportive  ceremony  and  parade 
Of  deference  to  nurse's  orders.     She 
Sent  down  to  say  that  "  Master  may,  as  soon 
As  he  thinks 'fit,  and  welcome,  for  we've  made 
A  great  improvement  since  last  evening." 
And  Bernard  found  'twas  true ;  Grace  looked  much  more 
Her  former  self,  in  quiet  strength  beneath 
A  slender  frame.     The  nurse  permitted  her 
To  chat  herself,  and  let  her  answer  when 
The  merchant  spoke  ;  so  he  availed  himself 
Of  Wilson's  gracious  sanction,  and  addressed 
His  questions  freely  to  the  invalid. 
He  went  about  the  room,  examined  its 
Adornments,  praised  their  grace,  simplicity, 


IOS  THE    REMITTANCE. 

And  taste  ;  then  paused  significantly,  just 

Before  the  cottage  piano,  looking  straight 

At  Grace.     "  Ah,  yes,"  she  said,  "  that  was  my  one 

Extravagance  ;  but  thought  it  well  to  make, 

Lest  I  should  lose  the  little  music  that 

My  mother  taught  me ;  and  I  might  have  need, 

Some  day,  I  fancied,  for  accomplishments, 

In  case  I  had  to  teach."     "  To  teach  ? "     "  Yes,  teach ; 

Give  lessons ;  go  as  governess  myself, 

If  you  became  unable  still  to  keep 

Me  here.     Such  things  have  been,  I  know ;  and  if 

You  had  grown  poorer,  and  could  not  have  kept 

Me  here,  I  should  have  liked  to  earn  myself 

A  living  independently,  and,  —  who 

Can  tell  ?  —  helped  you,  besides,  if  you  would  let 

Me  help."     She  spoke  so  gravely,  with  her  own 

Old  quaint  and  simple  self-possession,  blent 

With  modest  gentleness,  that  Bernard  heard 

Her  gravely  in  return.     "  You  paid  a  large 

Amount  for  it,  now,  I  suppose  ? "  he  asked. 

"  A  large  amount  for  me  to  spend,"  she  said ; 

"  But  not  too  much,  considering  what  I 

Should  surely  lose  had  I  not  had  the  means 

Of  practising."     "  Quite  true,"  he  answered,  with 


THE    REMITTANCE. 

A  smile  he  could  not  now  repress ;  "  you  made 

A  prudent  calculation,  —  how  much  gained 

By  a  judicious  outlay,  set  against 

The  price  you  pay,  —  the  best  economy. 

And  pray,  now,  may  I  ask  what  is  it  that 

You  practise  ?     Playing,  singing,  what  ?  "     "I  play 

Four  hours  a  day ;  and  sing,  at  intervals, 

A  couple  more."     "  And  might  I  farther  ask, 

If  I'm  not  indiscreet,  to  hear  you  play 

And  sing  ?  "  said  Bernard,  laughingly.     "  I'm  not 

Accustomed  to  do  either,  as  you  well 

Can  understand,  to  any  ears  but  mine 

And  nurse's  ;  but  if  you  will  promise  to 

Be  audience  lenient  as  ourselves,  I'll  try 

My  best."     She  had  her  chair  wheeled  over  to 

The  piano  ;  and  played  unaffectedly 

Some  favorite  pieces  of  her  own,  then  sang 

A  simple  air  or  two  she  liked  herself. 

Her  voice  was  sweet,  pathetic,  capable 

Of  giving  full  expression  to  a  strain 

That  needed  feeling  chiefly ;  and  her  songs 

Were  mostly  these,  —  soft  Indian  tunes,  and  scraps 

Of  melody,  —  regretful,  wild  ;  replete 

With  mournful,  dirge-like,  sad  lament  and  wail; 


109 


1 10  THE    REMITTANCE. 

The  merchant  rendered  duest  homage  by 
His  silence  and  his  moistened  eyes,  as  Grace 
Concluded  :  she,  a  music-lover,  well 
Could  understand  this  best  of  praise.     He  then 
Resumed  his  walking  round  the  room,  and  stopped 
At  each  successive  sketch  and  picture ;  found 
Them  principally  old  remembered  bits 
Of  Indian  scenery,  —  rock,  mountain,  and  ravine, 
Small  fisher  hut,  or  ancient  temple,  with 
A  single  lofty  tree  of  cocoa-nut, 
Thick  jungle,  tangled  underwood,  or  else 
A  river-side  with  boat  fantastic-shaped. 
Amid  them  all  there  hung  a  portrait-sketch, 
That  Bernard  knew  at  once,  —  his  old  friend  Dick : 
The  face  was  capitally  hit,  —  that  look 
Of  bright  expectant  eagerness  and  hope, 
So  well  remembered  by  the  merchant,  as 
He  gazed  upon  the  likeness.     "  Grace,  did  you 
Draw  this  ? "  he  said,  at  length.     "  I  did,"  was  her 
Low-toned  reply  ;  "  I  took  it  once  when  he 
Was  reading  to  my  mother,  full  of  glee 
At  news  he  had  received :  she  thought  it  like." 
"  'Tis  very  like,"  the  merchant  answered  with 
A  deep-drawn  breath, — "  poor  Dick !  poor  Dick ! "  Grace 
had 


THE    REMITTANCE.  Ill 

Been  nervously  observing  Bernard,  as 

He  looked  upon  the  crayon-sketch ;  but  when 

She  heard  his  sighing  word  there  came  a  light 

Into  her  face,  —  a  sweet,  glad  light,  —  a  light 

That  seemed  a  softened  reflex  of  the  bright 

Expression  in  her  father's  :   "  Then  you  love 

Him  still  ?     I  thought,  —  I  feared  "  —  she  stopped.    "  I 

loved 

Him  from  a  boy,  he  saved  my  life ;  I  love 
His  memory  still,  in  thinking  of  his  bright 
And  kindly  nature.     Could  you  fear  I  ceased 
To  love  your  father  ?     Dear  old  eager  Dick  !  " 
"  I  fancied  —  dreaded  —  the  remittance  that 
He  failed  to  send  might  cause  you  to  "  —     "  He  sent 
A  treasure,  priceless  household  treasure,  that 
Outvalues  all  the  sums  of  India !  "  said 
The  merchant  in  an  earnest  under-breath ; 
And,  for  a  moment,  not  a  word  beyond 
Was  uttered  by  himself  or  Grace.     He  then 
Began  to  talk  of  other  things,  and  fell 
To  asking  her  about  the  simple  white 
Soft  draperies  that  curtained  shadingly 
The  windows  in  harmonious  contrast  with 
The  grass-like  green  of  carpet,  and  of  walls 


112  THE    REMITTANCE. 

That  papered  were  with  trellis,  bowered  in 

By  woodbine,  jasmine,  climbing  rose  ;  while  round 

The  base  there  ran  a  garland-bordering 

Of  clustered  ferns  and  wild  anemones. 

Recalling  rustic  gardens,  woodland  glades, 

And  pleasant,  country,  open-air  retreats. 

"  How  did  you  manage,  Grace,  to  ornament 

Your  room  with  all  these  elegancies,  for 

So  small  a  sum  as  Wilson  vouches  that 

You  spent  ?     You  must  not  henceforth  limit  your 

Ingenious  thrift  to  furnishing  your  own 

Apartments  only ;  through  the  house  your  care 

And  taste  must  now  extend ;  and  let  me,  too, 

Enjoy  the  pleasure  and  the  benefit." 

"  Most  gladly/'  she  returned.     "  I  never  dared 

Attempt  a  change  downstairs  ;  I  fancied  you 

Preferred  to  have  all  left  exactly  as 

It  ever  had  been.     Now  beware  the  wave 

Of  Grace's  fairy-wand  ;  its  potency 

Shall  be  most  fully  tried,  thus  summoned  by 

Your  invocation ;  you  have  called  it  forth 

To  exercise  its  spell ;  take  care  it  does 

Not  ruin  you  in  articles  undreamed 

Of  by  the  former  furnishers  employed,  — 


THE    REMITTANCE. 

Conventional  upholsterers,  with  all 
Their  heavy  durable  moreens  and  stuffs." 
"  I'm  reckless,  Grace  !     Perform  your  fairy  will ! 
Be  boundless  in  your  magical  behests ! 
And  play  the  powerful  enchantress  in 
Your  vast  commands  !     I  can  afford  to  meet 
Prosaic  bills,  and  write  out  cheques,  with  aught 
Else  may  assist  to  summon  up  the  aid 
Of  ministering  spirits  you  may  need 
To  bring  you  silks  from  Samarcand,  or  rich 
Brocades  and  damasks  from  the  looms  of  far 
Cathay  or  Persia,  — where  you  will."     "  You  talk 
Of  bills  and  cheques,  and  such  '  prosaic '  charms 
Of  incantation  •  but  methinks  your  thoughts 
Have  wandered  to  the  realms  of  poesy : 
I  fancy  I  have  somewhere  seen  the  words 
Of  c  silken  Samarcand  '  and  <  far  Cathay.'  " 
"  I  know  but  little  of  the  poets,  Grace," 
Said  Bernard,  "  saving  one,  who  wrote  a  play 
Beginning  with  a  spirited  account 
Of  what  a  merchant's  haunting  fears  must  be 
Lest  'rocks'  should  split  his  ' gentle  vessel's  side,' 
Should  i  scatter  all  her  spices  on  the  stream, 
Enrobe  the  roaring  waters  with  her  silks.' 
H 


U4  THE    REMITTANCE. 

But  let's  return  to  prose,  —  and  understand 

That  I  am  now  no  longer  poor,  but  rich : 

You  look  surprised,  Grace  ;  well  you  may ;  for  I 

Have  gone  on  quietly  at  work  to  gain 

The  ground  I  lost,  through  these  few  years,  and  made 

No  outward  change,  although  at  present  I 

Possess  abundant  wealth  ;  so,  in  plain  prose, 

Be  sure  you  use  it  freely,  Grace,  and  turn 

The  house  to  Palace  of  Aladdin  in 

A  trice."     "  Free  use  of  cash,  with  liberty 

To  use  my  taste,  I  have  Aladdin's  lamp." 

She  answered,  "  therefore  you  may  soon  expect 

To  see  the  magic  change  you  authorize." 

But  modern  genii,  although  they're  swayed 
To  speed  by  money,  still  take  time  to  bring 
About  their  transformations  ;  workmen  once 
Within  a  house,  the  marvels  of  their  slow 
Advance  vie  with  the  marvels  they  effect : 
So,  while  her  gnomes  wrought  out  her  mandates  with 
Precision  equal  to  her  own  in  all 
She  ordered,  Grace  was  taken  down  to  the 
Seaside  by  careful  Mistress  Wilson,  that 
She  might  recover  perfectly  before 
The  mansion  was  arranged  according  to 


THE    REMITTANCE. 

Her  wish.     The  time  of  Grace's  absence  was 
A  weary  one  to  Bernard ;  but  he  plunged 
Into  his  merchant-work,  and  slipped  away 
At  intervals  from  town,  with  pretext  that 
He  must  tell  Grace  how  gnomes  and  genii 
Got  on  while  she  played  truant  by  the  sea. 

At  length  the  whole  was  finished,  and  return 
Was  gladly  made  to  the  old  London  home ; 
Old  home,  but  newly,  tastefully  adorned : 
The  "roomy,"  now  no  longer  "gloomy"  house, 
Had  brightness,  cheerfulness,  and  elegance, 
The  dining-room  where  Bernard  so  enjoyed 
His  genial  hour  of  rest,  good  fare,  and  chat, 
Was  made  chief  scene  of  Grace's  care  and  taste. 
The  lumbering  old  sideboard,  horsehair  chairs 
Ranged  side  by  side  along  in  formal  row, 
The  window  curtains,  with  their  rigid  folds 
Of  stiff,  unyielding,  thick  moreen,  in  hue 
A  dingy  brown  half  faded  into  drab, 
The  clumsy  girandoles,  the  ugly  grate, 
The  high  old-fashioned  chimney-piece,  beyond 
One's  reach,  its  marble  yellowed  through  by  stain 
Of  smoke  and  age,  the  walls  left  pictureless 
And  blank,  with  ponderous  flock-papering 


n6  THE    REMITTANCE. 

That  dull  absorbed  the  light  into  its  own 

Grim  red,  —  were  all  replaced  by  paintings  choice, 

By  sculpture  exquisite,  by  colors  of 

A  delicate  harmonious  tint ;  while  the  old 

Monotony  of  "  willow-pattern  "  plates 

And  dishes  now  gave  way  to  porcelain 

Of  dainty-flowered  device,  set  off  by  glass 

And  silver,  sparkling  in  a  million  rays 

Of  shifting  jewelled  light,  —  now  amethyst, 

Now  topaz,  sapphire,  ruby,  emerald. 

As  crowning  loveliness  to  all  the  rest,    * 

Grace  decked  the  table  daily  with  rich  groups 

Of  ruddy  fruits,  placed  on  the  frosted  glass 

And  frosted  silver  of  a  branched  epergne  : 

While  freshest  flowers  she  placed  with  artist  eye 

And  fingers  ;  some  in  feathery  sprays  down  drooped 

From  crystal  brim  of  a  tall  vase,  some  massed 

In  flatter  tazzas  of  Etruscan  ware 

And  form.     Contrasted  color,  shape,  and  scent 

Delicious,  all  were  there  to  yield  delight. 

Now  Bernard's  home  was  what  a  home  should  be, 

A  shrine  of  beauty,  comfort,  and  repose. 

Thus  time  moved  on  apace,  and  two  years  more 
Had  nearly  passed,  when  in  the  city  was 


THE    REMITTANCE. 


II/ 


Announced  a  ball  for  some  large  charity 

That  interested  all  the  world,  and  roused 

The  mingled  sympathies  of  love  for  deeds 

Benevolent,  and  dancing.     Bernard  was 

Entreated  by  the  Lady-Patroness 

To  give  his  aid  and  to  promote  the  thing. 

He  sent  a  handsome  contribution  and 

Took  tickets  home  to  Grace,  with  smiling  look, 

Demanding  if  she  cared  to  go.     "  Of  course 

You  will.     The  question  hardly  need  be  asked. 

What  girl  would  think  of  saying  l  No '  to  ball 

Proposed  ?     What  sensible  young  lady  would 

Refuse  a  dance  ?  "    "  Not  I,"  said  Grace,  "  the  thought 

Of  my  first  ball  already  flutters  at 

My  heart ;  in  part  because  it  is  my  first, 

In  part  because  I  fear  I  may  not  know 

Enough  of  dancing  to  acquit  myself 

With  credit.     But  I  mean  to  try,  and  if 

I  fail,  I  can  amuse  my  eyes,  if  not 

My  feet,  by  looking  on  at  others."     "Ah, 

That  shows  how  little  of  a  dancer  you 

Have  ever  been.     I've  heard  that  to  a  good 

Enthusiastic  dancer  few  things  are 

More  hard  than  playing  the  looker-on.     Be  that, 


Il8  THE    REMITTANCE. 

However,  as  it  may,  I've  asked  the  wife 

Of  an  old  business  friend  of  mine  to  act 

The  chaperone,  and  take  you,  Grace."     "  But  you 

Will  go  yourself,  will  you  not  ? "  she  asked 

With  quick  look  up ;  "you  do  not  mean  to  stay 

In  peace  at  home,  and  shabbily  leave  me 

To  go  with  this  strange  lady,  do  you  ? "     "  No," 

Said  he ;  "  for  once  I'll  play  the  youngster,  and 

Again  enjoy  a  ball.     For  this  one  will 

To  me  be  an  enjoyment,  since  I  mean 

To  see  how  Grace  l  acquits  '  herself."     "  Don't  go 

With  sly  intent  to  entertain  yourself 

At  my  expense,  and  laugh  at  my  defects 

Of  inexperience  ;  for  if  you  do 

I'll  make  you  dance  one  dance  with  me,  and  show 

How  your  unpractised  steps  exceed  my  own 

In  awkwardness."     "  I  ask  no  better  than 

You  should  accept  me  for  a  partner,  Grace ; 

I  fear  the  stoop  my  shoulders  have  acquired 

By  years  of  bending  o'er  my  merchant  work 

At  office-desk  would  make  you  hesitate, 

Ere  figuring  with  one  would  cut  so  bad 

A  figure  in  a  ball-room.     You  would  blush 

To  have  a  partner  like  myself."     He  spoke 


THE    REMITTANCE. 

In  playful  tone,  but  glanced  with  earnestness 

At  Grace's  face,  which  at  the  moment  wore 

Just  such  a  blush  as  he  alluded  to, 

While  answering  with  smile  should  match  his  tone : 

"  You  want  a  compliment ;  you  know  how  good 

The  figure  is  you  thus  —  conceited  that 

You  are  !  —  draw  notice  to,  affecting  to 

Dispraise.     But  fear  not  I  shall  e'er  invite 

You ;  lest  I  might  become  the  envy  of 

All  ladies  in  the  room."     He  could  not  quite 

Determine  how  much  irony  might  lurk 

In  Grace's  laughing  speech  ;  but  hid  whatever 

Of  trouble  and  disturbing  doubt  he  felt 

Beneath  responsive  rallying. 

The  night 

Arrived,  and  Lady  Bullion  came,  arrayed 
In  matron  lappets,  diamonds,  and  gown 
Of  velvet,  to  conduct  the  novice,  Grace  : 
Who,  robed  in  simple  white,  looked  lovelier, 
The  merchant  thought,  than  any  maiden  he 
Had  ever  seen.     He  asked  himself  if  this 
Could  be  the  "  unformed  awkward  girl "  he  called 
Her  to  himself  when  she  had  first  arrived ; 
This  graceful,  modest,  perfect  creature,  fair 


120  THE    REMITTANCE. 

And  beautiful  in  nature  as  in  form. 

And  others  found  her  fair  no  less  than  he : 

Fat  Lady  Bullion  vowed  she  was  quite  proud 

To  have  the  charge  of  one  who'd  prove  to  be 

Without  a  doubt  the  beauty  of  the  ball ; 

And  the  event  confirmed  her  ladyship's 

Prediction.     Partners  pressed  in  numbers  to 

Be  introduced  and  granted  leave  to  ask 

If  she  would  hold  herself  engaged  for  next 

One  after  fourth  ensuing  dance  ;  and  thus 

Did  Bernard  find  he  should  have  little  chance 

Of  the  dance  she  had  said  she  meant  to  make 

Him  dance  with  her.     But  just  as  he  began 

To  give  up  hope,  Grace  beckoned  him  beside 

Her  chair,  and  said  with  archness  in  her  tone, 

But  with  a  rosy  flush  upon  her  cheek  :  — 

"  You've  seen  how  Grace  'acquits  herself;'  should  you 

Refuse  to  try  how  i  bad  a  figure '  you 

Would  make  with  her  as  partner,  if  she  told 

You  she  has  kept  one  dance  —  the  promised  dance  — 

For  you  ?  "     For  answer,  Bernard  took  her  hand, 

His  eyes  expressing  speechless  joy,  and  led 

Her  to  her  place,  with  more  of  triumph  in 

His  heart  than  had  been  there  to  gladden  it 


THE    REMITTANCE.  121 

Since  he  had  been  a  happy  boy,  elate, 

With  life  before  him,  full  of  conscious  power 

To  reach  his  highest  aim  of  glorious 

Achievement.     But  when  once  the  dance  was  done, 

And  Grace  was  claimed  by  younger  partners,  more 

Accomplished  dancers,  a  reaction  came  :  — 

"  Fool,  self-deluder  that  I  am  !     Why  do 

I  let  my  thoughts  take  that  most  fruitless  bent  ? 

Why  will  they  wander  in  that  hopeless  track 

I  have  so  often  told  myself  is  closed 

Against  me,  past  all  chance  of  leading  to 

The  paradise  of  happiness  that  might 

Have  been,  were  I  a  younger  man  ?     She  likes 

Me  as  her  father's  friend,  no  more.     Be  mute, 

Be  patient,  Bernard  !     Be  not  your  own 

Misleader,  and  destroyer  of  what  joy 

Is  still  within  your  reach.     Her  innocent 

Devotion  and  affection  are  now  yours  ; 

Why  risk  their  loss  by  rash  betrayal  of 

Your  deeper  feeling  for  herself  ?     Be  mute, 

Be  prudent ;  rest  contented  with  the  share 

You  have  in  her  most  gentle,  loving  heart, 

And  lose  it  not  by  seeking  love  itself." 

But  on  the  following  day  his  self-communed 
6 


122  THE    REMITTANCE. 

Resolves  were  put  severely  to  the  proof. 

A  certain  May-fair  Baronet  had  seen 

The  City  Belle  and  danced  with  her.     He  asked 

Her  name,  her  parentage,  and  found  she  was 

The  ward  of  Bernard  Thorpe,  with  whom  Sir  John 

Had  had  some  money  dealings  recently. 

He  called  at  once  upon  the  merchant  at 

His  office  ;  and  in  easy  way  began 

To  speak  his  mind  :  "  Look  here,  you  see,  I'll  tell 

You  frankly  what  has  brought  me  here  to-day  j 

At  your  great  City  Ball  last  night  I  saw  — 

Was  introduced  to  your  Miss  Middleton  — 

I  danced  with  her  ;  I  hear  she  is  your  ward  ?  " 

"  She  is  my  ward,"  was  Bernard's  answer,  with 

A  cold  incline  of  head.     "  Well,  then,  she  is, 

Without  exception,  the  most  beautiful  — 

The  finest  girl  I've  seen  for  many  a  day. 

I  was  so  struck  with  her,  that  —  'pon  my  soul  — 

I  came  to  you  at  once  to-day  to  ask  — 

A  beauty  such  as  hers  excuses  what 

May  seem  abrupt,  unusual,  my  dear  sir ; 

But  she  herself  is  so  unusual  in 

Her  handsomeness  that  really,  now,  a  man 

Can't  help  himself,  you  know.     Of  course,  you  staid, 


THE    REMITTANCE.  1 

Calm,  middle-agers  hardly  understand 

This  sort  of  thing :  you  money-worshippers 

Can  scarcely  be  expected  to  allow 

For  hare-brained  fellows  like  myself,  who  can't, 

By  Jove,  be  prudent  where  a  lovely  girl's 

Concerned ;  but  still,  dear  sir,  you'll  pardon  me 

For  coming  straight  to  ask  you  "  —  "  What,  Sir  John  ? " 

Was  Bernard's  curt  inquiry.     "  Well,  to  ask 

If  you'll  permit  me  —  beauty,  my  dear  sir, 

Is  irresistible,  and  so  "  —     "  And  so, 

Sir  John  ?  "     "  And  so,  my  dearest  sir,  you  see, 

I  come  at  once  to  ask  your  leave  to  court 

Miss  Middleton  —  to  offer  her  - —  to  pay 

Her  my  addresses."     "  You're  aware,  Sir  John, 

Her  father  left  her  portionless  ?  "    "  I've  heard 

Some  story  of  a  loan  not  paid  —  of  a 

Remittance  never  sent —  I'm  not  quite  sure 

About  the  facts ;  but  think  that  I  have  heard 

Her  father  was  a  careless  scamp,  who  "  —     "  Stay," 

The  merchant  cried,  "  her  father  was  my  friend, 

My  dearest,  oldest  friend,  Sir  John  ;  I  will 

Not  hear  him  spoken  ill  of."     "Well,  at  least 

I've  heard  he  was  a  thoughtless  chap,  who  left 

His  daughter  without  fortune  ;  you,  dear  sir, 


124 


THE    REMITTANCE. 


Just  said  as  much,  that  she  was  portionless, 

Worth  nothing,  did  you  not  ?  "     "  Worth  nothing  !  —  I  ? 

Grace  Middleton  worth  nothing  ? "     "Has  nothing, 

Dear  sir,  was  what  I  should  have  said,  of  course ; 

I  meant  Miss  Middleton  is  dowerless  ; 

You  understand  ?  "     "  Oh,  yes,  I  understand," 

Said  Bernard  quietly.     "  But  you  may  give 

Her  something,  though,  yourself,  you  know,  dear  sir  ; 

She's  almost  like  a  daughter  to  you  ;  or 

Perhaps  do  something  for  her  at  your  death." 

"  My  death  ?  "     "  Of  course  it's  to  be  hoped  that  may 

Be  long  deferred,  dear  sir  ;  but  when  it  comes, 

You  know,  you  might  leave  something  handsome  in 

Your  will."     "  My  will  ? "     "  Ay,  in  your  will :  of  course 

A  man  like  you,  a  wealthy  man,  a  man 

So  prudent  as  you  are,  has  made  his  will. 

It  needn't  make  one's  death  more  near,  you  know. 

You  must  be  getting  on,  though,  now  I  come 

To  think  of  it ;  yet  not  by  any  means 

Advanced  in  years  :  to  fellows  like  myself 

Of  twenty-three,  a  man  like  you  seems  old. 

If  fair  the  question,  now,  what  is  your  age  ? 

It  can't  be  fifty  yet."     "Just  thirty-six." 

"  Indeed !    I  should  have  given  you  more,  I  own. 


THE    REMITTANCE. 

But,  then,  hard  work,  you  know,  and  laying  up 
The  lucre,  makes  us  all  look  older,  eh  ? 
You'll  think  of  my  proposal,  my  dear  sir, 
And  give  it  the  advantage  of  your  own 
Good  word,  when  you  submit  it  to  the  fair 
Miss  Middleton  ?  "     "  I  promise  you  I  will  lay 
Before  her  your  proposal  for  her  due 
Consideration,"  answered  Bernard  Thorpe  ; 
"  And  now  I'll  wish  you  a  good  morning,  if 
You  please,  Sir  John  ;  my  time  is  not  my  own  ; 
I  have  appointment  with  the  directors  of 
North  Western  at  eleven  o'clock.     I  know 
You  will  excuse  me."     "  Certainly,  dear  sir; 
You  wealthy  City  men  are  never  at 
Your  own  disposal.     We  West-enders  have 
Advantage  of  you  there  ;  but  as  for  more 
Substantial  cash  advantage,  why  —  ha,  ha  ! 
It  must  be  owned  you  have  decidedly 
Advantage  over  us."     Sir  John  took  leave  ; 
And  that  same  evening,  when  Bernard  sat 
With  Grace  beside  the  fire,  he  said  :  "  You  danced 
Last  night  with  young  Sir  John  Bodapperton." 
"  I  did  ? "  said  Grace  ;  "  I  daresay  that  I  did, 
And  knew  but  little  of  the  honor  I 


125 


126  THE    REMITTANCE. 

Enjoyed,  there  were  so  many  candidates 

For  my  poor  hand  to  dance,  I  hardly  could 

Distinguish  them  apart,  still  less  by  name. 

I  think,  though,  now,  I  clo  remember  that 

One  name  among  the  several  that  were 

Pronounced  by  Lady  Bullion,  when  they  came 

To  bow  and  beg  to  be  presented.     He 

Is  fair  and  lanky,  is  he  not  ?  with  just 

A  morsel  of  light  sandy  whisker,  that 

He  pulled  and  pulled,  while  he  was  dancing,  with 

The  bright  intention  —  as  it  seemed  to  me  — 

Of  making  it  grow  longer  ere  he'd  done." 

"  You  thought  it  '  honor '  to  be  asked  to  dance 

By  him :  what  will  you  think  when  I  inform 

You  that  he  offers  you  the  honor  of 

Becoming,  if  you  please,  the  partner  of 

His  life  ?  "     "  Of  his  ?  "  she  answered  in  a  tone 

So  unmistakably  contemptuous, 

That  Bernard  laughed  outright,  and  she  in  turn, 

To  witness  his  amusement.     "  Poor  Sir  John  ; 

I  see  that  I  shall  have  to  break  his  heart 

By  telling  him  of  your  refusal,  your 

Point-blank  refusal."     "  Well,  please  say  that  I 

Decline  the  honor  he  proposes  ;  that 


THE    REMITTANCE. 


127 


Will  be  the  proper  style,  I  fancy.'7     "Ay, 

Exactly,"  Bernard  said.     "  Among  the  rest 

Of  those  who  danced  with  me  last  night,  at  least 

A  dozen  were  worth  fifty  of  Sir  John  \ 

And  one  there  was,  an  old  acquaintance,  that 

I  was  quite  glad  to  see  again,  —  your  clerk, 

Young  Mr.  Frankland,  who  so  frequently 

At  one  time  used  to  come  with  messages 

To  you.     I've  often  meant  to  ask  you  why 

He  never  comes  of  late  ;  I  hope  he  still 

Is  with  you  as  a  clerk  ?  "     "  Yes,"  Bernard  said, 

"  He  still  is  in  our  house  of  business." 

"  Then  how  is  it  he  never  comes  now  to 

Your  dwelling-house  ?     I  feel  quite  sure  he  has 

Done  nothing  that  should  forfeit  your  esteem. 

I  know  he  prized  it  highly,  and  from  what 

I  know  of  him,  I'm  confident  he  can 

Have  done  no  ill."    "  You  speak  with  warmth,  Grace,  you 

Avouch  your  confidence  in  one  of  whom 

You've  seen  but  little  ;  what  can  you  have  known 

Of  Henry  Frankland  that  should  warrant  such 

Full  confidence  in  his  desert  ?  "     "I  speak 

With  warmth  because  I  warmly  feel,"  she  said. 

"  I  feel  quite  certain  Mr.  Frankland  has 


I28  THE    REMITTANCE. 

Committed  nothing  base,  unworthy  ;  no 

Dishonorable  action  that  should  cause 

You  to  forbid  his  coming  here  ;  now  tell 

Me,  has  he  ?  "     "  None,"  said  Bernard  dryly.     "  I 

Was  sure  of  it ;  I  told  you  so ;  I  knew 

He  could  have  done  no  ill.     From  what  I've  seen 

Of  him,  I  feel  that  he's  incapable 

Of  meanness  or  disgraceful  conduct;  and, 

In  justice,  nothing  less  should  make  you  change 

The  former  friendliness  you  showed  him, 

And  damage  his  good  name  by  letting  him 

No  longer  enter  your  own  private  house. 

Consider,  how  his  feelings  will  be  hurt, 

And  how  his  prospects  injured  by  so  marked 

An  alteration.     Knowing  well  the  high 

And  honoring  regard  he  has  for  you, 

The  gratitude  he  feels  for  all  you've  done 

For  him  and  his,  I  can  imagine  his 

Unhappiness,  to  find  himself  no  more 

Entrusted  with  your  messages,  nor  sent, 

As  previously,  to  your  own  home.     Forgive 

My  warmly  speaking  —  if  too  warm  it  be  — 

But  I  feel  earnestly  in  this  ;  and  I 

Must  always  speak  to  you  exactly  as 


THE    REMITTANCE. 


129 


I  feel."     "  Nay,  God  forbid  you  erer  should 
Do  otherwise,"  said  Bernard  warmly  as 
Herself;  "but  how,  Grace,  comes  it  that  you  know 
So  much  of  Henry  Frankland's  character, 
Of  what  I  have  done  for  him  and  his, 
Of  his  regard,  his  gratitude,  to  me  ?  " 
"  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  him  when  he  used 
To  come  and  wait  while  you  wrote  out  replies 
To  papers  that  he  brought,"  said  Grace  ;  "  you  know 
I  told  you  how  I  asked  him  to  explain 
Whatever  I  could  not  make  out  from  books 
On  calculation  and  accounts  :  well,  when 
All  that  was  done,  he  sometimes  talked  of  you, 
And  sometimes  of  himself ;  and  all  he  said 
Convinced  me  of  his  grateful  nature,  of 
His  honorable  character  ;  so  I 
Was  sure  he  could  have  done  no  act  that  ought 
To  forfeit  him  your  trust."     "  He  used  his  time 
With  good  effect,  and  made  the  most  of  it," 
Said  Bernard  bitterly  ;  "  it  seems  he  talked 
So  eloquently  of  himself,  that  you 
Imbibed  impression  of  his  worth  enough 
To  render  you  his  advocate,  and  make 
You  plead  his  cause  with  warmth  and  fervor  that 
6*  i 


130  THE    REMITTANCE. 

Might  fill  with  envy  any  other  man 

Less  favored.     What  would  poor  Sir  John  have  said 

Could  he  have  made  a  like  impression  ? "     "  He  !  " 

Said  Grace,  with  scornful  emphasis  again. 

"  Sir  John's  not  worthy  to  be  named  with  such 

A  man  as  Henry  Frankland ;  though  the  one 

May  be  a  baronet,  the  other  but 

A  merchant's  clerk."     "The  merchant's  clerk 

Is  to  be  envied,  Grace,  if  he  have  gained 

The  favor  that  the  baronet  has  sought 

In  vain."     "  The  l  favor '  ?  "  echoed  Grace,  at  length 

Observing  Bernard's  strangely  bitter  tone 

Of  sadness.     "  Yes,  your  favor,  favoring 

Opinion,  preference."     "  I  have  a  high, 

A  very  high  opinion  of  the  one, 

While  of  Sir  John,  I  fear,  'tis  very  low ; 

But  if  by  '  preference '  you  mean  the  sort 

Of  liking  asked  by  the  lank  baronet, 

For  neither  of  them  have  I  that,"  said  Grace, 

With  laughing  frankness.     "  All  the  better  for 

Myself  it  should  be  so,"  continued  she  ; 

"  Since  Henry  Frankland  told  me  once  his  hope 

To  marry  Lucy  Mildmay,  his  betrothed, 

When  better  salary  shall  justify 


THE    REMITTANCE.  131 

The  match."     "  To  marry  I  "  Bernard  cried,  in  tone 

Now  clear  as  clouded  'twas  before  ;  "  I've  heard 

No  word  of  this  :  how  comes  it  that  you  know 

A  secret  so  important,  while  to  me 

'Twas  never  breathed  ?  "     "  He  thought  me  likely,  I 

Suppose,  to  sympathize  with  what  he  said  ; 

Of  you  he  has  too  great  an  awe  ;  and  feared, 

Perhaps,  you  might  not  quite  approve  ;  or,  still 

More  likely,  dreaded  mentioning  his  wish, 

Lest  it  might  seem  like  begging  you  to  raise 

A  salary  that  you  yourself  had  been 

The  means  of  his  obtaining."     "  '  Awe '  ?  of  me  ? 

He  thinks  most  probably  that  I'm  too  old 

To  have  much  sympathy  with  lovers,  and 

Their  hopes  of  marriage."     "  You  !  too  old  ?  "  said  Grace, 

With  genuine  surprise.     "  Too  old  to  think 

Of  love,  to  care  for  love  ;  and  if  he  should, 

What  wonder  ?     An  old  bachelor  like  me 

Is  sure  to  be  regarded  as  stone  deaf 

To  lovers'  hopes,  and  dead  to  love  itself." 

A  sudden  pang  of  vital  agony, 

That  gave  sharp  negative  to  Bernard's  words, 

Shot  through  him  as  he  spoke,  and  made  him  start 

From  forth  his  chair  to  pace  the  room  in  wild 


132  THE    REMITTANCE. 

Disorder  irrepressible.     Then  by 

An  effort,  mastering  himself,  he  came 

To  Grace's  side,  and  strove  to  steady  down 

His  voice  to  more  of  calmness,  as  he  said  :  - — 

"  I  can  no  longer  bear  this  torture  of 

Perpetual  struggle  to  suppress  the  truth. 

Grace,  what  would  you  think  were  you  told  by  me 

A  love-story  ?     Would  you  think  me  too  old 

To  care  for  love  ?     Would  you  believe  me  deaf 

And  dead  to  love  ? "     "  Too  old  ? "  again  said  Grace ; 

But  now  with  agitation  in  her  tone, 

Besides  surprise ;  "  confide  to  me  your  love, 

You'll  have  my  sympathy,  believe  me ;  your 

Commencement  tells  me  that  your  story  is 

Of  hopeless  love  ;  how  strange  it  should  be  so ! 

How  stranger  still  I  never  guessed  you  loved ; 

Yet  saw  you  all  that  is  most  loving  and 

Most  lovable.     But  tell  me  who  she  is : 

I  know  so  little  of  your  outer  life,  you  know ; 

I  only  know  you  in  your  home."     Grace  spoke 

With  firmness,  spite  of  agitation  and 

A  secret  pain  she  ne'er  had  felt  before ; 

But  very  low  and  gentle  was  her  voice. 

"  It  is  my  inner  life  I  tell  you  of," 


THE    REMITTANCE. 


133 


Said  Bernard.    "  True,"  Grace  answered  ;  "what  I  meant 

Was  life  outside  this  house,  —  your  friendships,  your 

Attachments,  which  are  all  beyond  the  sphere 

Wherein  I've  seen  you,  known  you,  learned  to  make 

You  centre  of  my  interest  and  thought." 

A  little  tremble  came  in  Grace's  voice  , 

As  she  said  this,  but  she  went  on :  "  You  need 

Not  fear  indifference  because  I  do 

Not  know  the  lady ;  I  shall  feel  for  you." 

"  You  have  not  heard  my  story,  Grace,"  he  said. 

"  No  ;  tell  it  me."     "  You  do  not  know  how  mad, 

How  rash  I've  been ;  how  I  have  let  my  thoughts 

Entwine  themselves  around  perfection  in 

A  gentle  woman's  shape  :  a  creature  so 

Endowed  with  every  quality  of  good, 

Of  tender,  and  of  true  j  of  sensible, 

Of  gifted,  and  of  prudent ;  of  modest, 

Of  diffident,  devoted,  kind  ;  withal 

So  beautiful,  and  —  more  than  all  —  so  young, 

That  my  own  difference  of  years  makes  such 

Enamoured  sense  of  her  fair  excellence 

No  less  than  madness,  consignment  of 

Myself  to  hopeless,  endless  misery,  — 

Unless,  indeed,  this  young,  this  beautiful 


134  THE    REMITTANCE. 

Perfection  could  perceive  the  youth  of  heart, 

The  freshness  of  affection  that  survive 

To  render  years  of  small  account,  and  serve 

As  sacred  light  to  cast  into  eclipse 

Defects  that  else  would  be  but  only  too 

Apparent.     Grace,  'tis  you,  'tis  you  alone 

That  can  decide  this  doubt  which  long  has  made 

My  secret  torment  of  suspense,  and  now 

Impels  me  to  speak  out,  that  I  may  learn 

At  once  the  worst  —  or  best."     As  Bernard  spoke, 

There  spread  a  gradual  beam  of  happy,  glad 

Delight  o'er  Grace's  face,  a  radiance  of 

Content,  that  made  her  look  as  beautiful 

As  even  his  adoring  words  proclaimed. 

He  was  not  slow  to  read  the  speaking  look ; 

And  murmured  :  "  Grace,  you  do  not  bid  me  fear 

The  '  worst '  ?  "    "  I  bid  you  know  the  '  best,'  —  if  <  best ' 

You  call  the  certainty  that  you  have  long 

Been  loved  by  Grace ;  unconsciously,  but  yet 

Most  deeply,  truly :  without  knowing  it 

Herself,  she  must  have  loved  you  from  the  first, 

I  think,"  she  said,  with  sweet  ingenuous  eyes 

Soft  raised  to  his.     "  When  first  she  came  to  you, 

A  helpless,  timid  girl,  afraid  to  find 


THE    REMITTANCE. 

Herself  a  burden  and  a  worthless  charge, 

A  graceless,  profitless  young  thing,  you  let 

Her  try  her  best  to  expiate  the  wrong 

Her  father  did  you  ;  suffered  her  to  help 

You  and  endeavor  what  she  could  to  make 

Your  home  a  home  to  you ;  well  might  she  learn 

To  love  you  with  a  love  that  was  at  once 

Revering,  grateful,  worshipping,  and  fond  ; 

Spontaneously  it  sprang,  and  unawares 

It  grew  to  be  the  love  you  wish  ;  ay,  love 

Itself.'7     He  folded  her  within  his  arms, 

And  drew  her  to  his  heart  of  hearts.     "  My  Grace, 

My  own,  my  wife  !    From  first  to  last  you've  been 

A  wife  to  me,  a  priceless  home  delight 

And  treasure ;  wifely  in  your  childish  care 

And  ministry,  most  wifely  in  your  youth 

Of  sympathy  and  aid  in  my  pursuits  ; 

Now  wifeliest  in  your  acknowledged  love. 

A  thousandfold  you  have  redeemed  the  pledge 

My  old  friend  gave,  and  made  me  nobly  rich  : 

My  Grace  has  proved  the  best  REMITTANCE  that 

Her  father  could  have  sent  to  Bernard  Thorpe." 


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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers1  Publications. 

GOETHE'S 

HERMANN  AND  DOROTHEA. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN 

BY   ELLEN    FROTHINGHAM. 

WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS. 

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"Miss  Frothingham's  translation  is  something  to  be  glad  of:  it  lends  itself 
kindly  to  perusal,  and  it  presents  Goethe's  charming  poem  in  the  metre  of  the 
original.  ...  It  is  not  a  poem  which  could  be  profitably  used  in  an  argument  for 
the  enlargement  of  the  sphere  of  woman  :  it  teaches  her  subjection,  indeed,  from 
the  lips  of  a  beautiful  girl,  which  are  always  so  fatally  convincing  ;  but  it  has  its 
charm,  nevertheless,  and  will  serve  at  least  for  an  agreeable  picture  of  an  age  when 
the  ideal  woman  was  a  creature  around  which  grew  the  beauty  and  comfort  and 
security  of  home."  — Atlantic  Monthly. 

"The  poem  itself  is  bewitching.  Of  the  same  metre  as  Longfellow's  '  Evan- 
geline,'  its  sweet  and  measured  cadences  carry  the  reader  onward  with  a  real  pleas- 
ure as  he  becomes  more  and  more  absorbed  in  this  descriptive  wooing  song.  It  is 
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this  famous  idyl,  which  has  been  justly  called  '  one  of  the  most  faultless  poems  of 
modern  times.'  Nothing  can  surpass  the  simplicity,  tenderness,  and  grace  of  the 
original,  and  these  have  been  well  preserved  in  Miss  Frothingham's  version.  Her 
success  is  worthy  of  the  highest  praise,  and  the  mere  English  reader  can  scarcely 
fail  to  read  the  poem  with  the  same  delight  with  which  it  has  always  been  read  by 
those  familiar  with  the  German.  Its  charming  pictures  of  domestic  life,  the 
strength  and  delicacy  of  its  characterization,  the  purity  of  tone  and  ardent  love  of 
country  which  breathe  through  it,  must  always  make  it  one  of  the  most  admired 
of  Goethe's  works."  —  Boston  Christian  Register. 


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THOUGHTS  ABOUT  ART. 

BY  PHILIP  GILBERT   HAMERTON. 

Author  of '"A   Painter's    Camp,"  "  The   Intellectual   Life," 
"The  Unknown  River,"  "  Chapters  on  Animals." 

New  Rdition,  Revised,  ivith  Notes  and  an  Introduction* 

tf  Fortunate  is  he  who  at  an  early  age  knows  what  A  rt  is.' '  —  GOETHE.. 

CONTENTS. 

I.  That  certain  Artists  should  write  on  Art.  II.  Painting 
from  Nature.  III.  Painting  from  Memoranda.  IV.  The 
Relation  between  Photography  and  Painting.  V.  Word- 
Painting  and  Color-Painting.  VI.  Transcendentalism  in 
Painting.  VII.  The  Law  of  Progress  in  Art.  VIII.  Artists 
in  Fiction.  IX.  Picture  Buying.  X.  Fame.  XI.  Art  Crit- 
icism. XII.  Analysis  and  Synthesis  in  Painting.  XIII. 
The  Reaction  from  Pre-Raphaelitism.  XIV.  The  Artistic 
Spirit.  XV.  The  Place  of  Landscape-Painting  amongst  the 
Fine  Arts.  XVI.  The  Housing  of  National  Art  Treasures. 
XVII.  On  the  Artistic  Observation  of  Nature.  XVIII. 
Proudhon  as  a  Writer  on  Art.  XIX.  Two  Art  Philosophers. 
XX.  Leslie.  XXI.  Picture-Dealers.  XXII.  Thorvaldsen. 
XXIII.  The  Philosophy  of  Etching.  XXIV.  Amateur  Paint- 
ers. XXV.  Can  Science  help  Art  ?  XXVI.  Picture-frames. 
XXVII.  Autographic  Art. 

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THOREAU: 

THE     POET-NATURALIST. 

WITH  MEMORIAL  VERSES. 

BY  WILLIAM   ELLERY  CHANNING. 

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From  the  Churchman. 

Mr.  Channing  has  the  most  important  qualifications  for  writing  a  book  on 
Thoreau.  He  understands  him,  sympathizes  with  all  his  peculiarities,  and  has 
made  a  thorough  study  of  his  writings.  This  volume  will  serve  as  a  key  to  much 
that  has  seemed  strange  in  the  conduct  and  in  the  words  of  the  hermit  philosopher, 
and  will,  no  doubt,  be  eagerly  read  by  his  many  admirers.  It  gives  a  vivid  picture 
of  the  man,  and  furnishes,  by  means  of  numerous  anecdotes,  and  frequent  quo- 
tations from  his  writings,  a  comparatively  full  history  of  both  his  outward  and 
inward  life. 

Front  the  Liberal  Christian. 

He  stands  forth  especially  as  the  lover  and  interpreter  of  Nature.  What  man 
ever  saw  more  of  the  great  Mother's  mysteries  than  he?  He  knew  all  the  birds, 
animals,  flowers,  shrubs,  trees  within  walking  distance  of  his  home.  He  loved 
the  world  in  all  its  phases  and  varieties,  as  few  men  love  human  beings.  Nothing 
transpired  which  did  not  excite  his  curiosity  and  interest.  He  "  could  not  pass  a 
berry,  nor  fail  to  ask  a  question."  "  His  habit  was  to  go  abroad  a  portion  of  each 
day  to  fields  or  woods  or  the  river :  '  I  go  out  to  see  what  I  have  caught  in  my 
traps  which  I  set  for  facts.'  "  Yet  he  had  the  deepest  reverence  for  Nature,  and 
sought  to  penetrate  her  secrets  with  no  conceited  impertinence. 

Front  the  Springfield  Republican. 

Altogether  the  most  unique  American  book  of  the  year,  or  for  several  years, 
is  Mr.  Channing's  memoir  of  his  friend  Thoreau,  lately  published  by  Roberts  in 
a  volume  of  370  pages.  It  defies  analysis  and  eludes  criticism,  being  without 
method,  and  quite  lawless  in  its  style  and  aim ;  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  facts 
and  fancies,  prose  and  verse,  passages  from  Xhoreau,  and  from  a  hundred  other 
authors,  —  yet  running  through  it  always  the  thread  of  personal  interest  in  the  man 
of  genius  described  or  describing  himself.  For  it  is  now  time,  as  it  was  not,  per- 
haps, ten  years  ago,  when  Mr.  Emerson  printed  his  brief  sketch  of  Thoreau,  to 
recognize  how  rare  and  original  was  the  genius  of  his  friend,  whom  it  has  been 
the  fashion  to  speak  of  as  an  imitator  of  Emerson. 


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THORVALDSEN: 

HIS    LIFE    AND      WORKS. 

BY   EUGENE   PLON. 

Translated  from  the  French  by  I.  M.  LUYSTER.  Illustrated 
by  Two  Heliotypes  from  Steel  Engravings  by  F.  GAILLARD, 
and  Thirty-five  of  the  Master's  Compositions,  drawn  by 
F.  GAILLARD,  and  engraved  on  wood  by  CARBONNEAU. 
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From  tJie  Boston  Daily  A  dvertiser. 

M.  Eugene  Plon  has  written  a  complete  and  fascinating  biography  of  Thor- 
valdsen.  This  great  Danish  sculptor  adopted  Winckelmann's  theories  of  art,  and 
endeavored  so  faithfully  to  put  them  into  practice  that  his  sculpture  is  the  best 
and  truest  expression  of  them  ever  given.  M.  Plon  gives  a  clear  and  singularly 


From  the  Golden  Age. 

Thorvaldsen's  Life  belongs  to  romance,  but  his  genius  is  an  inspiration  of  art. 
The  story  of  the  man  is  pathetic  as  well  can  be  :  the  history  of  the  artist  is  full  of 
heroism,  aspiration,  and  triumph.  Thorvaldsen's  biography  is  a  hard  one  to  write 
delicately;  indeed,  it  is  hard  to  write  at  all,  because  a  true  biography  must  come 
out  of  sympathy  and  admiration,  and  there  is  much  in  his  conduct  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  extenuate,  and  difficult  to  tell  in  a  way  that  shall  not  offend  the  modern 
reader.  M.  Plon  has  done  his  work  well.  He  has  told  the  story  unexceptionally, 
and  interpreted  the  acts  of  the  master  from  the  spirit,  the  genius,  the  destiny  of 
the  man  rather  than  by  conventional  rules.  He  is  an  admirable  interpreter  of  the 
great  Northman's  artistic  spirit  and  achievements.  The  volume,  with  its  finely 
executed  cuts  and  complete  account  of  the  great  master's  works,  is  a  real  contribu- 
tion to  the  literature  of  art,  and  well  calculated  to  foster  the  growing  interest  in 
art  studies  and  pursuits. 


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THE    LIFE    AND     LETTERS    OF     MADAME 

SWETCHINE.     By  COUNT  DE  FALLOUX.    1  vol.  16mo.    Price 
$150. 

THE  WRITINGS  OF  MADAME  SWETCHINE. 

Edited  by  COUNT  DE  FALLOUX.    1  vol.  16mo.    Price  $1.25. 
MADAME  SWETCHINE. 

BY  LUCY  LARCOM. 

A  well-written  history  of  an  excellent  and  gifted  woman,  like  the  "  Life  and 
Letters  of  Madame  Swetchine, ""  by  Count  de  Falloux,  will  naturally  meet  with  a 
welcome  among  people  of  the  truest  culture.  Madame  Swetchine  was  not  a 
woman  who  courted  publicity  ;  but  the  thread  of  her  life  was  so  interwoven  with 
the  political  and  religious  movements  of  her  time,  it  was  impossible  for  her  to 
escape  notice.  And  it  brightens  that  dark  period  of  strife  between  France  and 
Russia,  with  which  the  present  century  opened,  to  follow  the  life-track  of  this 
Russian  lady,  who  seemed  to  have  been  equally  at  home  in  both  countries. 

She  was  intimately  acquainted  with  the  noblest  men  and  women  of  that  re- 
markable period,  and  there  is  not  one  of  them  upon  whom  her  friendship  does  not 
cast  a  beautiful  glow. 

She  was  one  of  those  rare  beings  who  seem  to  have  been  created  to  draw  out 
what  is  best  in  others,  by  the  power  of  sympathy  and  self-forgetfulness.  She  was 
a  woman  of  uncommon  intellect,  and  of  wide  reading ;  and  every  thing  she  read 
was  brought  to  the  standard  of  a  judgment  remarkably  clear  and  penetrative  ; 
indeed,  her  conversion  to  the  Roman  Catholic  faith  seems  to  have  been  mostly  a 
matter  of  the  head,  —  a  choice  between  the  Greek  and  the  Roman  ecclesiasticisms 
Long  before  her  decision  was  made,  her  life  shows  her  to  have  been  a  humble  and 
earnest  Christian;  and,  as  such,  as  one  whose  sympathies  took  wing  higher  and 
wider  than  the  opinions  in  which  she  had  caged  herself,  her  history  has  a  rare  value. 

One  wonders  at  the  amount  of  good  accomplished  by  her,  always  a  weak  in- 
valid. In  order  to  understand  how  she  lived,  and  what  she  did,  the  book  must  be 
read  through ;  but  some  extracts  might  give  a  hint  of  it :  — 

"  She  rarely  gave  what  is  called  advice,  —  an  absolute  solution  of  a  given 
problem  :  her  humility  made  her  shrink  from  direct  responsibilities.  She  did  not 
lecture  you.  She  did  not  set  herself  up  as  a  model  or  guide.  She  did  not  say 
'  Walk  thus; '  but  sweetly.  '  Let  us  walk  together; '  and  so,  without  making  the 
slightest  pretensions,  she  often  guided  those  she  seemed  to  follow.  Young  and 
old  acknowledged  her  sway.  She  never  evoked  a  sentiment  of  rivalry,  because  no 
one  ever  detected  in  her  a  temptation  to  win  admiration  at  the  expense  of  others, 
or  to  eclipse  any  person  whatever.  Her  disinterestedness  won  pardon  for  her 
superiority. 

"  Sick  and  erring  hearts  came  and  revealed  themselves  to  Madame  Swetchine 
in  all  sincerity  ;  and  she  shed  upon  them,  sweetly  and  gradually,  light  and  truth 
and  life. 

"  In  her  turn  she  drew  from  this  intimate  intercourse,  added  to  her  own  ex- 
quisite penetration,  a  knowledge  of  the  human  heart  which  amounted  almost  to 
divination.  She  knew  the  science  of  the  soul  as  physicians  know  that  of  the  body . 

"  Her  charity  was  not  a  careless  and  mechanical  practice.  She  consecrated 
to  it  all  her  strength  and  all  her  skill.  Almsgiving  was  not,  with  her,  the  mere 
fulfilment  of  a  duty.  She  liked  to  give  pleasure  besides  doing  good,  and  her 
heart  always  added  something  to  what  her  hand  gave." 

Madame  Swetchine  lived  a  little  beyond  the  boundaries  of  threescore  and  ten. 
It  is  only  ten  years  since  she  died.  Heaven  does  not  ask  to  what  communion  she 
belonged,  neither  will  posterity.  The  memory  of  her  saintliness  is  a  possession 
to  the  church  universal,  in  the  present  and  in  the  future  Such  a  record  as  hers 
is  an  inspiration  to  all  who  read ;  such  an  example,  the  most  imperative  u  Go 
thou  and  do  likewise." 


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ROBERTS  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 
THE 

INTELLECTUAL    LIFE. 

BY   PHILIP   GILBERT   HAMERTON, 

AUTHOR   OF 

"A  Painter's  Camp,"   "Thoughts  About  Art,"  "The  Un- 
known River,"  "  Chapters  on  Animals." 

Square  I2mo,  cloth,  gilt.     Price  $2.00. 

From  the  Christian  Union- 

"  In  many  respects  this  is  a  remarkable  book,  —  the  last  and  best  production 
of  a  singularly  well  balanced  and  finely  cultured  mind.  No  man  whose  life  was 
not  lifted  above  the  anxieties  of  a  bread-winning  life  could  have  written  this  work  ; 
which  is  steeped  in  that  sweetness  and  light,  the  virtues  of  which  Mr.  Arnold  so 
eloquently  preaches.  Compared  with  Mr.  Hamerton's  former  writings,  'The 

Intellectual  Life'  is  incomparably  his  best  production But  above  all, 

and  specially  as  critics,  are  we  charmed  with  the  large  impartiality  of  the  writer. 
Mr  Hamerton  is  one  of  those  peculiarly  fortunate  men  who  have  the  inclination 
and  means  to  live  an  ideal  life.  From  his  youth  he  has  lived  in  an  atmosphere 
of  culture  and  light,  moving  with  clipped  wings  in  a  charmed  circle  of  thought. 
Possessing  a  peculiarly  refined  and  delicate  nature,  a  passionate  love  of  beauty, 
and  purity  and  art ;  and  having  the  means  to  gratify  his  tastes,  Mr.  Hamerton 
has  held  himself  aloof  from  the  commonplace  routine  of  life  ;  and  by  constant 
study  of  books  and  nature  and  his  fellow  men,  has  so  purified  his  intellect  and 
tempered  his  judgment,  that  he  is  able  to  view  things  from  a  higher  platform  even 
than  more  able  men  whose  natures  have  been  soured,  cramped,  or  influenced  by 
the  necessities  of  a  laborious  existence.  Hence  the  rare  impartiality  of  his  deci- 
sions, the  catholicity  of  his  views,  and  the  sympathy  with  which  he  can  discuss 
the  most  irreconcilable  doctrines.  To  read  Mr.  Hamerton's  writings  is  an  intel- 
lectual luxury.  They  are  not  boisterously  strong,  or  exciting,  or  even  very  forci- 
ble ;  but  they  are  instinct  with  the  finest  feeling,  the  broadest  sympathies,  and  a 
philosophic  calm  that  acts  like  an  opiate  on  the  unstrung  nerves  of  the  hard- 
wrought  literary  reader.  Calm,  equable,  and  beautiful,  'The  Intellectual  Life,' 
when  contrasted  with  the  sensational  and  half  digested  clap-trap  that  forms  so 
large  a  portion  of  contemporary  literature,  reminds  one  of  the  old  picture  of  the 
nuns,  moving  about,  calm  and  self-possessed,  through  the  fighting  and  blasphem- 
ing crowds  that  thronged  the  beleagured  city." 

"  This  book  is  written  with  perfect  singleness  of  purpose  to  help  others 
towards  an  intellectual  life,"  says  the  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  It  is  eminently  a  book  of  counsel  and  instruction,"  says  the  Boston  Post. 

"  A  book,  which  it  seems  to  us  will  take  a  permanent  place  in  literature," 
says  the  New  York  Daily  Mail. 


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Ushers^ 

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MESSES,   KOBEETS  BEOTHEES'  PUBLICATIONS. 

RADICAL    PROBLEMS.     By  Rev.  C.  A.  BARTOL, 
D.D.     One  volume,  IGmo.     Cloth.    Price  $2. 

CONTENTS.  —  Open  Questions;  Individualism;  Transcendentalism; 
Radicalism;  Theism;  Naturalism;  Materialism;  Spiritualism;  Faith; 
Law;  Origin;  Correlation;  Character;  Genius:  Father  Taylor;  Expe- 
rience; Hope;  Ideality. 

From  the  Liberal  Christian. 

What  a  wonderful,  wonderful  book  is  the  "  Radical  Problems."  We  are 
not  a  third  through  it  yet,  and  Heaven  only  knows  where  and  how  we  shall 
find  ourselves  at  the  end  of  the  journey.  Already  are  we  so  shocked, 
stunned,  bewildered,  edified,  delighted,  — in  short,  thorougnly,  thoroughly 
bewitched,  —  that  we  have  no  words  to  express  ourselves.  .  .  .  That  this 
book  has  a  long  life  before  it  who  can  doubt,  or  that  it  will  cause  a  grand 
commotion  in  the  theological  world?  It  will  be  impetuously  attacked  and 
vehemently  defended,  but  will  survive  alike  the  onslaught  of  its  assailants 
and  the  intemperate  zeal  of  its  defenders ;  and  will  be  the  fruitful  source 
of  many  a  brilliant  essay  and  inspiring  discourse  and  stimulating  and 
suggestive  club-talk,  long,  long  after  its  gentle  and  gifted  author  has  left 
us  to  receive  a  most  cordial  welcome  by  his  brother  thinkers  in  brighter 
spheres. 

From  tlie  Commonwealth. 

Spirituality,  purity,  gentleness,  love,  child-like  simplicity,  bless  and 
sanctify  him;  but  he  is  spirited  as  well  as  spiritual.  In  his  gentleness 
there  is  a  quick  vivacity,  and  he  sometimes  exhibits  a  keen  incisiveness 
as  of  whetted  steel.  His  aim  is  not  so  much  to  solve  as  to  suggest.  He  is 
no  dogmatist,  nor  is  he  an  expositor  or  judge.  He  finds  open  questions, 
and  delights  to  leave  them  open  questions  still.  Meantime  he  looks  into 
them  with  the  eyes  of  his  inmost  soul,  discerns  much,  throws  out  a  pro- 
fusion of  glancing  and  irradiating  suggestions  that  open  the  questions 
farther  instead  of  closing  them,  then  retires  to  look  elsewhere.  .  .  .  This 
man  carries  eternal  summer  in  the  eyes,  and  sees  beds  of  violets  in  snow- 
banks. His  own  climate  is  his  world,  and  he  can  make  no  excursions  out 
of  it.  A  pleasant  world  it  is,  with  no  deserts,  jungles,  reeking  bogs,  foul, 
ravening  creatures,  and  poles  heaped  with  ice.  As  some  will  see  only  with 
the  physical  eye,  so  he  with  the  spiritual  only. 

From  the  Globe. 

It  contains  seventeen  chapters,  honestly  representing  the  individual 
spiritual  experience  of  the  author,  and  at  the  same  time  indicating  some 
of  the  intellectual  tendencies  of  the  time.  It  is  "  radical,"  not  in  the  usual 
sense  of  the  word,  but  in  its  true  sense,  that  of  attempting  to  pierce  to  the 
roots  of  things.  Many  of  the  opinions  and  ideas  expressed  in  the  book  may 
be  repudiated  by  the  conservative  reader,  but  its  spirit  and  aim  cannot 
fail  to  charm  and  invigorate  him.  Dr.  Bartol,  indeed,  is  one  of  those  men 
who  have  religious  genius  as  well  as  religious  faith.  .  .  .  The  book  is  a 
protest  against  popular  theology,  made  from  what  the  writer  considers 
the  standpoint  of  true  and  pure  religion.  We  have  considered  it  from  a 
literary  point  of  view,  and,  thus  considered,  its  wealth  of  thought  ana 
imaginative  illustration 'entitle  it  to  a  high  rank  among  the  publications 
of  the  year. 

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f 

MESSRS,  ROBERTS  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS, 

THE  INFINITE  AND  THE  FINITE.  By  THE- 

OPHILUS  PARSONS,  Author  of  "  Deus  Homo,"  &c.     One  neat 
IGmo  volume.     Cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

"  No  one  can  know,"  says  the  author,  "  better  than  I  do,  how  poor  aud 
dim  a  presentation  of  a  great  truth  my  words  must  give.  But  I  write  thorn 
in  the  hope  that  they  may  suggest  to  some  minds  what  may  expand  iu 
their  minds  into  a  truth,  and,  germinating  there,  grow  and  scatter  soed- 
truth  widely  abroad.  I  am  sure  only  of  this:  The  latest  revelation  oftera 
truths  and  principles  which  promise  to  give  to  man  a  knowledge  of  the 
laws  of  hig  being  and  of  his  relation  to  God,  —  of  the  relation  of  the  Infinite 
to  the  Finite.  .  .  .  And  therefore  I  believe  that  it  will  gradually,  —  it  may 
be  very  slowly,  so  utterly  does  it  oppose  man's  regenerate  nature, —but  it 
will  surely,  advance  in  its  power  and  in  its  influence,  until,  in  its  own 
time,  it  becomes  what  the  sun  is  in  unclouded  noon." 

From  the  Clilcago  Republican. 

Few  writers  have  obtained  a  more  enviable  reputation  in  this  country 
than  the  author  of  this  little  book,  and  few  are  more  justly  entitled  to 
consideration.  His  works  upon  jurisprudence  are  to  be  found  in  almost 
every  public  and  private  law  library  in  the  country;  while  his  writings 
upon  Christian  philosophy  and  the  science  of  religion  are  universally  re- 
ceived as  models  of  close  and  logical  reasoning  by  those  even  who  differ  from 
him  in  the  form  of  their  religious  belief.  .  .  .  Mr.  Parsons  has  been  pro- 
nounced to  be  *'  the  most  fascinating  interpreter  of  the  writings  of  Swe- 
denborg,"  and  the  present  volume  will  add  to  rather  than  detract  from  a 
reputation  to  which  he  is  so  justly  entitled.  The  defects  of  the  work  are 
only  such  as  necessarily  attach  to  the  ^subject  itself.  The  Unite  cannot 
grasp  the  infinite,  but  the  author  has  accomplished  this:  he  leads  the 
reader  through  new  and  pleasant  paths  of  thought  into  the  boundless 
immensity  that  surrounds  us,  where  the  mind,  freed  frem  the  idea  that  the 
only  source  of  spiritual  truth  is  a  revelation,  the  interpretation  of  which 
is  limited  to  a  prescribed  class,  feels  and  acknowledges  the  power  of  the 
infinite  in  newer,  simpler,  and  not  less  holy  truths. 

From  tJie  New  York  Evening  Post. 

Professor  Parsons,  in  his  little  work,  does  not  undertake  to  controvert 
the  huge  volumes  that  have  been  written  upon  the  philosophical  problem 
of  the  Infinite  and  the  Absolute:  he  merely  attempts  to  show  us  how  the 
problem  has  been  treated  by  his  master,  Swedenborg.  He  has  a  profound 
reneration  for  the  teachings  of  that  illustrious  seer,  and  his  expositions 
>f  these  teachings  have  the  merit  of  unusual  clearness  and  simplicity. 
.  .  .  Whatever  difficulties  the  reader  encounters  in  his  pages  are  dini- 
Hiltics  inherent  in  the  subjects  themselves,  and  not  in  his  methods  of  eluci- 
dation. Any  one  accustomed  to  think  at  all  upon  deep  religious  questions 
will  be  able  to  understand  what  he  means,  though  he  may  not  be  disposed 
to  accept  his  conclusions.  And  the  inquirer  who  simply  wishes  to  be  in- 
formed of  the  general  scope  and  purport  of  Swedenborg's  remarkable  dis- 
closures will  find  few  better  helps  than  the  small  and  unpretending  volumei 
of  Professor  Parsons. 

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ROBERTS    BROTHERS,  BOSTON. 


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